


The Song in the Darkness

by Mirach



Series: Aragorn in peril [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hope, Hurt Aragorn, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, The Silmarillion References, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: AU. After the battle on Pelennor fields, Aragorn is captured by the Nazgûl and brought to the Dark Tower. His will is the only thing that stands between Sauron and the One Ring. (Translation to Chinese available)





	1. To the tombs of kings doom approaches

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story that I have been playing over and over in my mind for years before I even found out about the existence of fanfiction. It was written in 2009, but still remains most significant to me from all stories I wrote. In no other did I reach that deep into pain and despair, and yet kept the hope and nobility. I am presenting it to you in a complete form, with no waiting at a cliffhanger for the next chapter. Yet I warn you: be prepared for strong emotions. And please, excuse the overuse of ellipses and other issues, I like to keep it like it is as a memory. 
> 
> Beta readers: openmeadow, Cairistiona, Ragnelle  
> [Translation to Chinese by WRock](http://www.lofter.com/collection/wrock070/?op=collectionDetail&collectionId=4737733)

_At the doors of the Houses many were already gathered to see Aragorn, and they followed after him; and when at last he had supped, men came and prayed that he would heal their kinsmen or their friends whose lives were in peril through hurt or wound, or who lay under the Black Shadow. And Aragorn arose and went out, and he sent for the sons of Elrond, and together they labored far into the night. And word went through the City: ‘The King is come again indeed.’ And they named him Elfstone, because of the green stone that he wore, and so the name which it was foretold at his birth that he should bear was chosen for him by his own people._

_And when he could labor no more, he cast his cloak about him, and slipped out of the City…_

It was quiet on the Pelennor fields. Where a battle raged only a few hours before – the clang of swords, the cries of wounded and dying, mad whining of horses and roaring fires – now silence veiled the blood-soaked field: the stillness of death. A lone figure in dark cloak slowly made its way through the battlefield. He stumbled several times, and nearly fell, but always he found his balance in the last moment, and continued forwards with unfocused gaze – as if he wouldn’t truly see the smoking remnants of battle under his feet.

Aragorn’s gaze was turned inwards. In the silence of night the cries of battle still sounded in his ears, blending with the sounds of all the battles that he fought in the last days, with the roaring flames of the lidless Eye in the Orthanc stone, and dull echoes of hooves and whispers of the Dead beneath a haunted mountain. There were sounds, and pictures of a long shadow reaching westwards from a black tower in Mordor like the wings of darkness. In this dark hour before the dawn, the picture seemed to be overwhelming, fueled by blood – both crimson and black, and blood rained from the shadow all over the land, soaking the soil beneath his feet.

He remembered walking through this place before. It was in a dream… Or was this a dream, and before it was real? He sought someone, back then… He called his name, and no answer came for a long time. There was black mist, and swirling shadows, and the fear – for a moment the fear returned, and it was as real as if the dream has never ended. The fear that he would not find the one that he sought, and he would have no strength to return himself. For a moment he felt like walking the sinister landscape of Black Breath again, before he realized that this place is real, and he is not seeking someone lost, but walking from Minas Tirith to the camp of Dúnedain.

The distance was not far, but to Aragorn it seemed as the longest road in this dark hour, longer than the leagues through the vast plains of Rohan, because every league and every battle was here, now. It was a road through his own memories, and again Helm’s Deep was besieged and the White City was burning while he led the hoists of Dead, hoping that it is not too late yet.

Suddenly he stopped, and closed his eyes, drawing a shuddering intake of breath. _This place…_ Even in the darkness, he recognized it. This was the place where Halbarad fell. He stood still for a moment, and although he didn’t look at the place, the scene was playing over and over behind his closed eyelids. “ _Halbarad_! _No_!!!” But his warning came too late. And the words could not stop the arrow… Aragorn sighed, and finally opened his eyes. There was the same silence over this place as over the whole Pelennor fields. The silence that comes after the last breath… _But I am still alive, and there is so much to do yet, so much to accomplish for the last glimpse of hope_ … His thoughts turned to the east, into the land of darkness and despair, where two hobbits were trying to accomplish what an army could not.

His road was hard, but in his heart he knew that their road was even more exhausting and difficult then his. And the Eye was still searching; the only hope for them and for Middle-earth was to avert its gaze. And he knew what must be done and shivered, as if in a cold breeze. _Tomorrow. Tomorrow I must be strong._ Or was it today, already? The eastern sky was brighter, but he couldn’t tell if it was the rising sun or the fires of Mordor.

At last the tent that his kinsman erected for him was in sight. The banner with the White Tree had been hurled and there were no signs that the tent belonged to a king, more than just the Captain of Dúnedain, but it was the most comfortable shelter he had slept in for a long time. The camp was quiet, the rangers sleeping after many exhausting days, and only two of them held watch over their comrades. For a short moment Aragorn thought about relieving them, for they apparently had difficulties to hold their eyelids open, but he immediately realized that he wasn’t thinking coherently anymore – his own hands trembled from weariness and he felt near to falling under the Black Breath himself, after healing so many from it.

The feeling increased with every second, and Aragorn realized that this couldn’t be the aftermath of healing. Alarmed, he turned around, his hand on the hilt of Andúril. The feeling of dread overwhelmed him and he knew: a Nazgûl! Andúril flew from its scabbard, reflecting the dim lights on the east. The two sentries looked up to see a cloaked figure with a sword in hands, and alarmed they hurried to the place.

Aragorn tried to pierce the unnatural darkness that engulfed him with his gaze. He felt the Ringwraith was near, but couldn’t see it. He heard cries… chopped off by the stillness of death. The blood froze in his veins. He rushed to where the cries came from and stumbled over a body. It was one of the sentries, his features twisted in horror; Lenareth. A kinsman. One of the only ones he had. Aragorn felt a light touch on his cheek that sent shivers through his body, like the wing of a nightmare.

He turned quickly, but darkness was the only thing he saw, darkness and the unseeing eyes of Lenareth that lingered like a picture imprinted in his mind no matter where he looked. Faint whispers echoed in his mind, whispers that chilled his body and crept to his heart, and he knew that he had given too much of himself in the healing of the others. Too long had he walked in the shadows, seeking the lost and returning them to the light. Now he had no strength left for himself to avert the shadows engulfing him.

He fell to his knees, shivering and panting hard, and felt the steps of the approaching Nazgûl like the blows of a ram on the gate. The gate was cracking beneath the force, and he knew that the next blow would be the last. _No! It can’t fall_! He was sinking into deep water, down, down into the dark. Above was the surface, too far away. _No! Not yet. I won’t give up yet_! Desperately, he struggled to swim to the surface…

He broke though! Once again he was aware of his own body. The Nazgûl was leaning over him, his eyes like pits of whirling shadows, and his sword aiming at Aragorn’s head. Aragorn didn’t have time to avoid the blow, but he managed to jump to his feet and catch the blow with his left shoulder. Burning pain exploded in it and light flickered before his eyes. But he felt his hand again, and his fingers clenched around the hilt of Andúril. The Flame of the West against the darkness of the East… With one mighty blow Aragorn plunged the sword into the shadows before him.

A harrowing scream echoed through the night, and Aragorn felt as if the scream entered his own body through his sword-arm. Unable to hold on to the hilt any longer, the ancient sword slipped from his hand. The scream was like a dark wave circulating through his body, carrying him to the realm of despair. His hand felt numb and cold and the cold entered his blood.

Swaying on his feet and panting heavily, Aragorn fought the dizziness. The world he saw had no colors, there were only creeping shadows. There was a dark shadow looming over him, with the face of a mighty lord of men, yet withered by age, with empty eyes. Wounded, but not dead… Aragorn’s heart froze. He had no strength to fight anymore. The shadows reached for him and he did not resist. He felt as though he was falling, falling deep into a pit of darkness. The darkness embraced him and he knew no more.


	2. He chanted a song of wizardry

A high shriek echoed on the field of Pelennor. Chilling the blood. Freezing the bone marrow. The Dúnedain rushed from their tents, swords in hand. Something was wrong, very wrong. As if the hope was gone, the spark lit by their victory extinguished. A dark shadow passed across the sky, bringing despair in its wake…

_Nazgûl_.

They ran. The two sentries were found; their features twisted in a mask of horror. Dead… Next two that would not return to their families on the North. A gasp… a quick prayer… a curse. The servants of the Eye had returned… But what for? To take revenge? To quench the courage of the Children of the West?

One of the rangers glimpsed something shimmering on the ground, a few steps away from the dead bodies. He drew nearer… halted in his tracks, held his breath. A sword. A magnificent sword with elven script on the blade and hilt, reflecting the dim light that was beginning to lighten the sky. And his heart sank, for he knew that sword and dearly loved the one that had the right to wield it. Andúril… He fell to his knees. The others came to his side, and saw what he did.

“Fetch Mithrandir!” One of the older rangers said as his voice trembled with sorrow. A younger ranger nodded, and ran to the Citadel in search of the wizard. Nobody dared to speak, nor lift the sword. In quiet they waited for the wizard, a quiet as heavy as a dark mantle, pressing them down and suffocating them.

Finally, Gandalf arrived with the sons of Elrond in his heels. His white robes were covered with a grey cloak, and he looked old and weary, but the young ranger barely managed to hold his pace, such was his hurry to see the disturbing news.

He himself felt that something evil has transpired this night that the hope was waning, replaced by despair. His first thought was on Frodo. Had the quest failed? Was Middle Earth lost to the darkness? If Sauron acquired the Ring, they would know soon enough…

The Dúnedain stepped aside silently, letting him see the corpses and… Gandalf stopped as if frozen in place. He stood there for a moment, his head bowed and eyes closed and the full weight of what he heard before dawn and what he saw now, lay on his shoulders. _Andúril, the Flame of the West. Oh Valar, they have Aragorn!_ A single tear found its way to his eye and down his cheek. Slowly, he knelt, and with great care and honor lifted the dropped sword. It was as cold as ice.

When the sons of Elrond saw what he held in his hands, their faces paled.

“Ai! Alas for Aragorn son of Arathorn! Alas for Estel!” exclaimed Elladan, his voice trembling.

Elrohir bowed his head and whispered “Alas for our brother…”

Dark thoughts whirled in the wizard’s mind. What fate awaited the heir of Isildur in the hands of Sauron? The tortures of Barad Dûr were terrible, and Sauron knew already who Aragorn was. But if he finds out about Frodo, then the fate of all Middle-earth is lost. And he will ask. He knows that the Ring had been found and the heir of Isildur had revealed himself at the same time. He will connect the two things… The heir of Isildur has the Ring, or knows where it is. Sauron _will_ ask…

The only hope for Middle-earth is in the two hobbits that carry one burden: the one that the wise wouldn’t dare to touch. But the hope for these hobbits had the name Estel. His will was the only thing that stood between them and the Eye now.

A ray of sun was reflected from the blade of Andúril, and lit the tear falling off Gandalf’s eye. It shimmered for a moment like a star beneath the Western Seas, and then fell to the ground and was gone.

* * *

When Aragorn came to himself, there was a strange feeling of rising and sinking and of wind on his face. He was flying, clenched in the talons of some beast. They dug painfully into his back, and blood dripped from his shoulder. He moaned quietly. But the pain was good – it anchored him in this world. It circled through his body, making him aware of it. Anything was better than the shadows…

His eyes were closed, but he knew where they were taking him. The air stank of death and was full of poisonous fumes and ashes, and unnatural quiet lingered there, as if no living thing dared to walk this land. _Mordor_ … Aragorn trembled, and cold sweat rippled on his brow.

He felt a presence, an ancient malice, and with every movement of the beast it was stronger as he neared its source. Its burning gaze turned his way, piercing his heart. A tremendous pain exploded in his body, as if it was caught in fire. He arched his back and his eyes went wide in shock as he screamed in the sudden agony. A poisonous voice pierced his mind like a white-hot spear. It was the voice of destruction, of pure evil that drew its strength from suffering and darkness.

“ _Welcome, Heir of Isildur, to my kingdom…”_ it said mockingly, and Aragorn writhed in a new wave of agony. Darkness grew tall above him; a wave dark as the depths of the sea where no light reached. From a high place he saw it coming for him; a deadly wall of crushing pressure… nearing… nearing…

It washed over him. No breath. No thought. The whirling streams of darkness extinguishing the light of his soul, hammering into him from every side, pulling him deeper and deeper into the colorless world of shadows. There was failure, despair, betrayal, flood… the fall of Númenor…

He fought the darkness, struggled for breath, and resisted the pull. For how long? Time had no meaning here, but it was long, so long… and he was so weary… He fought for the light. Valiantly, he fought… He fought for… for… For what? Why did he fight at all? All resistance was in vain, the voice told him. So why not succumb to the darkness? Why not allow himself to rest? _Come to me,_ said the voice, _and I will make you my new Captain. And yours will be the crown that you long for. Come to me…_

For a moment Aragorn saw a picture of himself on the Gondorian throne. He was the King, proud and strong, and at his side… Arwen, the fair Evenstar. And he ceased his struggles. This was everything he longed for, and he could reach it now. With the crown he would gain her hand, such was the condition of her father. Without it he was unworthy of her ancient grandeur, but the voice promised… it promised to fulfill everything that he strained for so long… And he let the darkness to carry him…

But then the picture changed, and he saw tears in Arwen’s eyes, and she was clad in black as though in mourning. _What does she mourn for?_ She chose a mortal life, knowing that it will end with mourning her love. But he saw himself at her side and he was not dead. _What does she mourn for?_ And he saw his eyes and they were shallow and his face was a mask of a shadow. _What does she mourn for?_ And he knew. She mourned for the Middle-earth. The Middle-earth that had fallen to darkness – because of him.

_No! This won’t happen!_ He began to fight again, to resist the pull of darkness. The voice sounded angry now, and its wrath was terrible. The dark streams tossed him wildly, attacked him angrily from every side like a swarm of black crows. A blur of sharp beaks and talons… Sharp pain. No reprieve… _No…_ He was determined to fight – fight to the last breath, despite the weariness, despite the pain. _I won’t allow myself to become this! Never! Never…_ The voice changed to a high scream that brought waves of agony to his body, but he fought, engulfed in pure darkness of whirling wings.

There was no time, no directions. His lungs screamed for breath… his soul cried for light. He wanted to swim to the surface but he didn’t know where it was. The blackness was absolute, with no light that he could follow. He longed for a star that would give him some direction, some hope, for a small spark of light in the dark. _Oh Arwen, where is your star? O Eärendil, please… O Elbereth…_

And behold! There was a light! A small flicker of light, almost lost, choked by the darkness but it was like a beacon to Aragorn. _Estel_ … And he realized that the light wasn’t outside in the darkness. It was in him… He followed it, retreating into the depths of his soul. Retreating to a place in his mind that Elrond had seen when he had given name to him. It was weak - like a wall of glass that could shatter under the weight of the shadow, but it was a quiet place in the storm, where his weary spirit could rest. Just for a while. A little while… Outside the shadows were whirling and hammering into the fragile wall but here, here it was calm…

An excruciating pain yanked him out of the calm place and again he was aware of his body that was squeezed forcefully in the talons of the beast. He couldn’t breathe, and felt his ribs cracking beneath the force. A shrill scream echoed in the air like a swarm of ice-cold needles, but the fiery eye was averted from him. For a while… In one terrible split of second he realized what fate would await him if he succumbed to the darkness. He would become a wraith under the will of Sauron. And he would tell him all of their secrets. He would tell him about Frodo… But he withstood. Never would he become this. He might die but he wouldn’t become a traitor.

But he couldn’t hold these thoughts for long. They were angry. Angry that he resisted. One of his ribs broke and he opened his mouth in a futile attempt to scream, he didn’t have enough air for it. Dark spots swam before his eyes, and he dig his nails into the flesh of his palms as a second rib broke. His lungs were in fire, they longed for the precious air but he couldn’t give it to them. His vision faded and only blearily did he realize that they were landing high in the tower as the grip of the beast loosened. 


	3. Of piercing, opening, of treachery

Air... Cool air in his burning lungs. He fought for every gulp as if it could be the last one. It stank of ash and sulphur, of Mordor. It _could_ be the last one. And with the air, another sensation came. Pain… Sharp pain of the broken ribs, returning with every breath, the throbbing of the wound on his shoulder, the thin trickle of blood running down his hand, dripping on the floor. And the cold and unyielding stones of the Dark Tower drank his blood.

Then another sensation returned, as the black dots clouding his vision dissolved, and his eyes focused slowly. He lay under the sky, high in the tower where the beast landed. A sky without stars, without light – only dark, swirling clouds. Then a dark shape obscured his sight, a figure with a cruel smile on the pale lips. Not a wraith – a Man in dark mask, and his eyes flickered coldly when he saw that Aragorn is aware of him.

He stood without motion, towering against the dark sky, while Aragorn lay at his feet struggling to control his breathing and pain, the burning flames where Sauron touched his mind. The man looked down at him with an expression of contempt. When he was sure that Aragorn will hear his words, he spoke finally. “You had a chance – He himself offered it to you! How do you dare…” he growled dangerously, “How do you dare to resist Sauron the Great?!” Without warning, he kicked Aragorn heavily in the stomach.

Aragorn gasped, and curled into a ball as a new pain erupted in his body, but then he met the man’s sight, and tried to rise. _Resist… yes! Never will I become a wraith!_ Oh, how he missed Andúril in his hand!

The man didn’t give him time to recover; he grasped his blood-stained shirt and jerked him upright, looking straight into his eyes, his pale lips a tight line. “Don’t think that it will help you. You know something that my Master wants to know. And you _will_ speak. If not this way… then another!” he hissed.

Aragorn’s gaze did not falter and there was a determined look in his eyes. He would die here; he saw it in the man’s eyes. But he could give hope to Frodo and keep the Eye averted from him. “I know… what he wants to know,” he said through clenched teeth, and he didn’t recognize his own voice. “But he… won’t learn it… from me.”

The man smiled cruelly. “Oh, but he will. He will…” He threw him back to the ground, and Aragorn’s head hit the stone floor painfully. The man towered above him, and Aragorn felt the ancient malice present again, as if the man was in some sort of contact with it. “I am the Mouth of Sauron,” he exclaimed. “And I ask you: where is the Ring? Think carefully, for the answer can spare you much suffering.”

Aragorn didn’t answer; he looked into the eyes of the Mouth of Sauron firmly, without any flicker of doubt in his storm-grey eyes. _Then I will suffer for I will not call myself a traitor._ The silence was his answer. Again he tried to rise, to meet the enemy standing like on the battlefield. 

The man’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You will speak…” he said silently but threateningly, and without warning he dug his sharp nails into the cut in Aragorn’s shoulder. Aragorn’s eyes widened in the burst of pain, and sweat rippled on his forehead, but he remained silent and did not avert his pain-filled gaze as he writhed to escape the man’s grip.

The Mouth of Sauron snickered coldly. “Oh, we have enough time… and enough means to make you speak. “But this…” he kicked Aragorn again with his heavy boots “…this is just a lesson for you!” And again. “Nobody resists Sauron the Great without punishment!” And again… Aragorn finally gave up the attempts to rise. He lay curled on the floor, biting his lip again screaming in agony as the boot connected with his broken ribs and the bleeding cut.

After a while, the kicking ceased, and the man walked away with a satisfied grin on his face. Aragorn was not aware of it. He lay on the floor, shivering in pain and panting heavily, his eyes shut. After a moment, he realized that his tormentor had left. His first thought was to flee, to run away from the pain and torment. But then he realized where he was: Barad Dûr, the Dark Tower. There was no escape. Despite the second thought, he struggled to his feet. He managed to rise to a kneeling position, but his feet trembled beneath him and he wouldn’t have enough strength to stand up. But then a third thought came. Would the Mouth of Sauron leave him alone? Why? To mock him, to give him a false flicker of hope?

_Yes_. He realized as the sound of many feet approaching echoed on the stone floor. Rough hands clutched him, and forced him to his feet. Orcs… They shouted something at him in their Dark speech, but he did not understand. They were dragging him as he was too weak to walk and they did not miss out on the chance to cause him more pain by their rough grips. He felt a cold gaze on his back. Somehow, he knew that the Mouth of Sauron was watching.

They dragged him through the corridors, up and down the stairs, and into a dark cell. A smoking torch was the only light here, and the stones of the walls were rough and cold. There was something sinister in the walls, choking every memory of light, like echoes of pained screams and evil laugh. Aragorn shivered. He felt like suffocating under the weight of stones, the whole Barad Dûr pressed him down, and didn’t allow him to breathe freely. No movement in the air, no sound. Only the echoes laughed…

A pair of shackles hung in the middle of the room. He tried to resist, but the orcs only laughed at his attempts and punched him with heavy fists until he ceased to struggle. They locked his wrists in the tight manacles, and laughed at the gaze that would have made them flee in the middle of battle. But now, he was helpless in their hands.

They pulled the chains connected to the manacles until he was standing only on the toes of his feet, his body strained painfully and the cut bleeding freely. He wanted to relieve his aching limbs, but as he slumped low on his shackles, the sudden sharp pain in his wrists made him hiss and shift his weight on the toes again – the manacles’ edges were sharp and jagged, injuring his wrists. _And they laughed_ … They watched and laughed as his legs trembled, but every small movement to relieve them caused more damage to his wrists.

Then one of them came nearer, until Aragorn smelled his stinking breath, and the other orcs encouraged him with shouts. For a moment, Aragorn caught his cruel yellow eyes before pain exploded in his ribs as the orc punched him heavily. He doubled over, unable to prevent the manacles from digging into his wrists. A small groan of pain escaped him, and that was all the encouragement that the orcs needed. They swarmed over him, punching and kicking him at every unprotected area of his body. They tore the cloak off him and his shirt hung in bloodied shreds when they ended. _And all the time, they laughed._

Aragorn did not know how much time passed until they left, and if they did so willingly. He was on the verge of unconsciousness, hanging limply in the shackles, the warm blood from his wrists freely flowing down his arms. Long ago, the pain of each individual blow merged into an uninterrupted flow of pain coursing through his body. _And it will not stop_ … That was the worst: he knew that while he is in their hands… _while he lives…_ it will not stop.

He wanted to get away from the pain, to escape from his chained and beaten body. He tried to forget the pain and retreat deep into himself, to find that calm place again. For a long time he couldn’t find it, there was only darkness and pain whenever he looked, but he knew it was there. It was there, he could not give up, could not despair. He must have hope. _Hope_ … And he saw the light again. He had found the place! He escaped the pain. His body felt it still but his mind escaped to the calm place. It was soothing, he longed to stay here forever, but he knew that they would jerk him away from here again, with a new burst of pain. And so he enjoyed the calm while it lasted, knowing that it wouldn’t be long. 


	4. Resisting, battling against power

The calm shattered under a violent punch. Like shards of glass that were hit by a stone. No, no stone. A fist in an iron glove… He didn’t know where he is. For a moment there was only pain and confusion. The copper taste of blood in his mouth. The unnatural position of his body. The thin trickle of blood from the reopened wound on his shoulder. The slow recognition… His heart sank. He focused his blurry eyes on the face that was looking at him. It wasn’t an orc; the black mask covered the upper half of his face, leaving free only eyes – cold, cruel eyes and big pale mouth. _The_ _Mouth of Sauron…_

“Ah, our Majesty is awake…” a cold smile was on his lips, but it disappeared immediately as he stood in front of his prisoner, high and threatening. “Did you learn your lesson? Then we can begin…” He looked at Aragorn intently, in search for any sign of weakness at the statement. _This is just a beginning…_ But he found none. “So…” the Mouth of Sauron lowered his face only inches from Aragorn’s. His breath stank of something rotten. “…there is a little piece of jewelry **.** A golden ring, very dear to my Master. And you know where it is, don’t you?” His eyes pierced Aragorn’s.

No answer came, only a steely look.

“Ah… you don’t want to speak with me? But you will, believe me. The question is not if, but when – and how much pain it will cost you…” Slowly he unstrapped something from his belt and put it before Aragorn’s eyes. A whip, heavy and sharp, and stained by blood, some of it still fresh. No reaction. He cracked the whip and smiled as Aragorn blinked at the sound but his eyes were met by the same steely gaze.

Slowly he stepped behind Aragorn’s back, and waited. He savored the feeling, the tension of the body before him, the anticipation of pain. It was a feeling of power. He cracked the whip again, and snickered as Aragorn jerked. The man was his prey now. His prey couldn’t escape, it was helpless in his hands, and he savored the feeling like a cat that likes to play with its mouse. He toyed with the whip. “And maybe…” he said in a low, quiet voice, “maybe I will not listen when you decide to speak. You will beg to tell me, but you will have to tell my Master…”

Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment. _The lidless Eye…_ he felt cold fear creeping to his heart. _The fiery Eye… no, it will burn the whole Middle-earth if I tell him! There is nothing to choose. Just endure…_ He set his jaw in anticipation of pain. _Yes, there is no choice. So let it begin…_ , but when the blow didn’t come he realized that the man was toying with him, wanted to see him shiver in fear. Anger rose in him then. His eyes opened and the look in them was like the clouds of an ancient storm when Middle Earth was young and the horns of Oromë echoed in its thunders.

If the servant of Sauron had seen the look, maybe he would forget his game with the prey – the look would tell him who the pray was, despite the circumstances. But he was behind Aragorn and didn’t see it. He saw that the man lifted his head proudly, although he had barely the strength to support himself, and hung in the sharp shackles limply. His prey dared to resist… His power over the situation was questioned. A cold fury blazed in him. _He would break him. Before the day ends, he would break him!_

The first blow fell with such a force that Aragorn’s vision darkened for a moment, and he clenched his teeth. The pain exploded in his back like a fiery tongue, and he arched it instinctively, but he made no sound and his look didn’t change.

The whip cracked for a second time, and new pain erupted while the first was still sending its sharp needles through his body. And the two pains together created a new one, worse than a simple summary of the two.

The third blow fell before he could realize what was happening and then a long pause – the anticipation of pain… Aragorn tried to prepare for the next stroke in the short reprieve. But then three blows came in quick succession: four, five, six!, and he gasped at the sudden agony.

Seven……..Eight…Nine, ten…….Eleven……….Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

He didn’t count the strokes anymore. They were coming in confusing patterns so that he couldn’t tell when the next blow would fall. His eyes were closed against the waves of pain, and his breathing was quick, through the clenched teeth. With every stroke he arched his back, and ripped up the wounds on his wrists. When he opened his eyes, his gaze was clouded by pain, but that made the storm clouds of wrath in his gaze even more menacing. 

But his tormentor didn’t look into his eyes. He looked at the first drops of blood running down his battered back and smirked in satisfaction. _Soon you will scream. And then… then you will beg, you would-be king!_

With every stroke Aragorn had the feeling that the pain was worse than everything before, but then the next stroke came and he was sure that before, it was _nothing_ in compare with _this_. He bit his lip sharply enough to draw blood, but didn’t scream. He thought of the same whip striking at Frodo’s back if these foul creatures learned about him, and the thought fueled his anger and determination. Drops of sweat rippled on his forehead and ran down his temples. _And every stroke was worse then the one before_ …

Slowly his vision faded as he stumbled at the verge of unconsciousness, still feeling every stroke as a fiery tongue of pain licking his sore back. There, on the other side, was the soothing light, the wishful reprieve from the confusing pattern of whiplashes. He closed his eyes, and tried to perceive the pain as something that was there, but didn’t belong to him, he tried to relax and cross the line that separated him from the dim light. It took him a long while to see the unclear path through the line, the path that he himself created while following the light, and that was becoming more certain every time he took it. But once he found it, he followed it to sweet oblivion, leaving the pain and suffering behind. As he crossed the line, he felt a small flicker of victory that he had escaped his tormentor.

The Mouth of Sauron realized that the man wouldn’t scream. He didn’t seem to perceive his surroundings at all... An angry growl escaped him, and with two steps he faced the limp man, lifting his chin roughly. He slapped him hard, but Aragorn didn’t respond, and the man cursed. _He hadn’t allowed him to drift away yet! There was much pain he had yet to feel! He had to scream!_ From his pouch, he removed a small stick of black wood, and ignited it in the torch. As a sharp smell of thick smoke filled the air, the man held it near Aragorn’s face.

Aragorn coughed and his eyes flickered open. Suddenly he felt the pain of his body and saw the evil light of his tormentor’s eyes. He wanted to retreat back into himself, but the path was lost in thick smoke…

Then the Mouth of Sauron threw the whip away, and grabbed another that hung on the wall of the room. With an evil grin he put it before Aragorn’s eyes. It was a many-fanged whip with sharp pieces of metal. Aragorn couldn’t help himself but feel a pang of fear. It must have reflected in his eyes, because the Mouth of Sauron smiled maliciously.

This time, he didn’t wait, as if he was too eager to see the man’s submission. A terrible pain struck Aragorn, and his entire body writhed in agony. And he screamed. He didn’t even realize it, all his surroundings faded in the overwhelming pain. Only when he heard an echo of scream fading in the cell, did he realize that the scream was his, and that his wrists were mutilated by the shackles in his agonized trashing.

The cruel whip stroke again, and again Aragorn screamed. With each stroke, he screamed as if he could let out the pain of his body with the sound. The light in his eyes diminished, and they glazed over with pain, and his suffering was mirrored in them instead of the storm-clouds of anger. The Mouth of Sauron finally had his satisfaction. _Soon he will break_ …

It went on, and on, and Aragorn forgot where he was, and why he was in this place. His mind screamed in the agony of his body, there was no coherent thought left. And then, after eternity… two, three eternities, the strokes stopped. Immediately he slumped in the shackles, trembling.

A gloved hand forced his head up, grabbing his hair, but the face that came to his sight was too blurred to be recognizable, and the words came to him like through a thick cloth.

“Now tell me about the Ring.” _Ring? What ring?_ He couldn’t concentrate.

“The Ring. Where is it? Tell me and I won’t continue…”

The meaning of the words came slowly to his mind. _Ring… Frodo!... No! He cannot find out!_ But he longed for the pain to stop, and the thought of its increasing made him nauseous. Oh, how he longed for it to stop! But…

“No… No… Never…” he said, his voice barely a hoarse whisper after the many screams, and with the words he shivered in anticipation of what was to come. The hand dropped his head furiously.

“How dare you…” the voice hissed, and then his back blazed in fire. His fists were clenched so tight that he draw blood with his own nails, but it didn’t help. And then the whip struck at his arms, legs and chest, and the screams became less and less loud as the strength left his body with the blood that created a pool at his feet. Finally he passed out. The Mouth of Sauron left him then, a pitiful bloodied figure hanging limp in the shackles, his features as pale and worn out as the faces in the Dead Marches.


	5. Of secrets kept, strength like a tower

Pain. Pain circling in his veins instead of blood. Pain filling his lungs instead of air. Pain…

Slowly Aragorn’s eyelids fluttered, opening in a narrow slit, but there was no difference. It was dark here, the torch had burnt down long ago. The air was cold and damp, and he shivered despite the unnatural heat radiating from his body, he was running a fever. The many wounds covering his torn back felt like fire, and all his muscles protested against the position they were forced to endure. He moaned, almost inaudibly, but the quiet sound revealed the depth of the agony cursing through his body.

_…and in the darkness bind them…_

He closed his eyes again – there was nothing to see. He tried to shift his weight to relieve his wrists, but his back flared on fire with the movement, and his knees buckled immediately. Then he hung motionless, gritting his teeth against the pain. But after some times, the position became unbearable, and he tried again. Again, unsuccessfully…

_…and in the darkness bind them…_

He didn’t know how much time passed since he was brought here. There were moments when it seemed to him that nothing exists outside of this cell, just the cold darkness and evil echoes. Sometimes he thought that he has already died, and is buried in a tomb of heavy stone. But no, he reasoned then, if he would be dead there wouldn’t be so much pain. And thirst… The thirst came slowly, but it became as terrible as the pain. Then is he buried alive? He panicked at the thought, he wanted to get away, away from the dark tomb… but he only injured himself more as he struggled weakly against the heavy shackles.

_…and in the darkness bind them…_

Sometimes the door of the cell opened to reveal the ugly shapes of orcs – one or more. So something existed outside of the cell. But it was as dark as the cell itself – was the whole world swallowed by darkness? They were bringing water, but never enough to quench his thirst. And with the water, they brought more pain, amusing themselves by beating the helpless prisoner. Soon he learned to dread their visits, and yet awaited them eagerly, for the bit of water… and for the feeling when the door opened, and he knew again that there is something outside of the cell, sometimes he even caught a glimmer of torches. But then the door closed, and he stayed alone in the darkness again, wondering if the ray of light was just a dream of his weary mind.

_…and in the darkness bind them…_

The cracking of the door was his only connection with reality. And yet, when it sounded and he was reminded on the things behind it, cold dread gripped his heart with sharp talons. He was almost relieved when he saw orcs behind the door. But he knew that _he_ will come. His face loomed like a wraith in his thoughts. With every noise at the door he expected to see the pale, lifeless face. The Mouth of Sauron… He will come, and then… Aragorn was not sure if he will have the strength to resist…

_…and in the darkness bind them…_

_Why?_ He questioned. _Why am I here? Why do I have to suffer so?_ There was no answer, only his own ragged breathing echoing in the cell, and the silent moans with every exhale. He wanted to retreat into himself again, but he couldn’t find the path. He couldn’t find himself, there was no more hope left in this dark place.

_…and in the darkness bind them…_

He tried to focus his thoughts, but only pictures of evil and suffering haunted his feverish mind. He wanted to think of something else, to find a distraction from the pain of his body, but he couldn’t remember anything that was before. If there only would be some steady point in the whirlpool of blood and shadows! The face of the Mouth of Sauron returned every time he closed his eyes, with cold eyes and a cruel smile. Demanding… _what? Answers…_ _The Ring…_

_One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them…_

A small circle of metal emerged in his mind. He was sure that he had seen it before. _Where? Why is it so important?_ There was a quick picture of a face in his mind, with blue eyes and curly brown hair. _A hobbit… Frodo_. _Frodo…Frodo! No!_ There was a flash of vision of the hobbit, trembling before the fire of the Eye, blood and pale skin, as pale as a ghost…

“You failed him!” a voice said, accusingly, mercilessly. Sam’s voice…

“ _No! No! I didn’t! ... I won’t!”_ Aragorn cried out in his mind. “ _I won’t_ … _I…”_ a choked sob escaped his parched lips.

He feared that he wouldn’t have the strength to endure the next torture. He was in so much pain already, and knew that this was only the beginning, that so much more awaited him if he wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to know. Just thinking about it made his heart clench in fear. Everything he wanted in that moment was to die... to escape from the prison of his beaten body, to escape his weakness and the threat of his failure when the pain became too much for him to bear. Just to die and find rest...

In his mind, he saw Death. She was a beautiful woman, and the entire universe was mirrored in her eyes, and her hair was a veil of peace. Her lips were like red-hot metal and bloody silk, seducing, inviting to the kiss of oblivion. Oh, how he wanted to kiss those lips! To find rest in her arms, to be free of the chains… Her face reminded him on Arwen. _Arwen_ … He remembered! How sweet was the sound of that name! Tears welled in his eyes because he wouldn’t see her anymore. She wanted to give him the most precious gift she had – her immortality. He couldn’t give her anything for it, only his own mortal life, a whole human life of love. But now… there was nothing left of it. Nothing was left of the dreams, only nightmares stayed. Tears ran down his cheeks, stinging the many bruises.

He was prepared. He was of the line of Elendil, and through him, of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur and the old kings of Númenor. No, he didn’t fear death. But he felt regret for the love he couldn’t give, for the throne in Minas Tirith that will stay empty forever. There was so much to do! He didn’t fear death… He feared failure. He knew the grace given to his line, although it seemed a bitter grace sometimes. To go of free will… Now he would welcome it. They wouldn’t break him. He wouldn’t fail… He knew the old lore – that death is a Gift of the One to his second-born children. And he smiled slightly. Soon he would know what Ilúvatar prepared for his mortal children… He closed his eyes, and willed his spirit to part with his body… 

_He felt as though he was breathing clean air again, as fresh and sweet as the morning of the first snow. The chains holding his body snapped, and lo! he was free! He left the darkness and shadows behind, and peace overwhelmed all of his senses. And his senses changed, too – he saw all the things as they are, were and will be, he saw the layers of the world and the symbols beneath them, symbols that danced in the rhythm of a song, they were the tunes of the song, they were the song itself. And he heard them, he heard the song that created and sustained the world, its tunes in perfect harmony, rising and ebbing like the waves of time. He could feel the song; he was its part, his spirit resonating with the ever-present melody._

_Suddenly he felt a discord, a false tune. It echoed in his mind like an angry and poisonous thorn. It made him stop, and search for its source. He looked behind, and saw a place where the tunes were twisted and discordant, their shapes ugly. The discord was spreading from that place, wider and wider. He focused his sight on the surface layer of the place, and he shuddered as he saw a lidless eye, burning with an unclean fire. There was a figure before it, shielding its sight. But now the figure was vanishing like a mist in the morning and nothing stood between the Eye and…FRODO! Aragorn screamed, but no sound passed his lips. He realized that_ he _was the figure between Frodo and the Eye._ He _was shielding its sight. At the end, he had failed! He had failed in the fear of his failure…_

_“No! This can’t be! I must return! Oh Valar, please don’t let this happen! I wanted to escape the pain, and I made a wrong decision…Eru, Ilúvatar, please, don’t let evil rule Middle-earth because of me!” Desperately, he struggled to get back, there was still a faint trace lingering between his body and spirit, a thin and fragile connection. It was like swimming against the stream, something was pulling him back, a force that was stronger with every inch he gained._

_He saw his body – chained and beaten, and almost ceased his struggles. This awaits him – suffering… only suffering. But he remembered the vision, and knew that he has to suffer – to spare the others such fate. There was still hope, small and uncertain, that Frodo would succeed in his quest. But only if the Eye will be averted. He wanted to keep its attention by marching with the army to the Black Gates. Now he had no army, only his own will, but the Eye was fixed on him, it thought that he hid the Ring… “There is no hope for myself”, he thought, “but I can give hope to Frodo…” And as subtle as the hope was, an almost extinguished sparkle, it was worth the suffering…_

_He resisted the pull that was stronger then ever now, and slowly he reached and touched the pale statue-like features of his own face. Immediately he was thrown into a whirlwind of dreadful images and sticky tentacles of darkness. He could not hear the song anymore, could not see the many layers of world, only the present, cold and cruel…_

The pain hit him immediately like a crushing wave. A long, deep moan escaped his lips as he opened his eyes with great effort. Recognition sank in his heart like a cold heavy stone. What he would have to endure will be worse, much worse. But he must try to resist as long as he can, to keep the Eye turned to him. _No hope for myself… but a small hope for two hobbits and with them, for everything fair in these lands…_ And for him, suffering until death. Or until they broke him… He only hoped that he would have enough will left at that point to release his spirit before he can tell them what they want to know. But he must try to resist as long as possible to buy time for Frodo.

Hanging in chains in this dreadful place, and shivering from pain and fever, he could suddenly remember who he was… and he understood the true meaning of _Estel_. No more doubts – there was no other way. The flicker of light returned into his eyes with a determined look, and, although glazed with pain and fever, there was something strong like steel in them again.

“ _I am Aragorn son of Arathorn; and if by life or death I can save you, I will.”_


	6. Backwards and forwards swayed their song

He was resting in the place that his mind had created as a retreat from pain, appearing unconscious to the outer world. Now, he could find the path to the refuge again, following the beacon of the small spark of hope. Only its color changed… It was red now, for it wasn’t his hope anymore – it was the hope born of his blood.

Suddenly, he was choking, the thick smoke that filled his lungs pulled him out of the place, to the merciless reality, where the Mouth of Sauron grabbed his hair roughly, and forced him to open his bleary eyes and look at the face of his tormentor. He did, with a calm and cold look, although he had barely the strength to lift his eyelids, and the light of the torch that the Mouth of Sauron carried hurt in his eyes. Their gazes met, and the Mouth of Sauron averted his eyes after a while, punching his chin hard in the same moment.

He was furious at the man that should have been broken already, should have begged for mercy after telling him all of his secrets. Yet he resisted still, yet he dared to look into his eyes as if _he_ was the one who was interrogating. He let out a vicious snarl, and scowled at the man, whose head fell to his chest, lacking the strength to support it… or was he saving it for later?

He motioned to someone behind him, and four orcs came to sight. Aragorn paid them no attention. He didn’t need to know how they were going to hurt him. He knew he would find out soon and then there would be no reprieve. He didn’t want to think about it now; he had the last moments before it began, and, unbidden, a thought of Argonath came to his mind. _The Pillars of Kings_ … For centuries they have guarded the borders of Gondor, resisting time and weather, the Kings of old in their glory undimmed. He wished he could be like them. Steady. Unbreakable…

Rough hands grabbed his ankles, and chained them to the floor firmly, with similar sharp shackles like the ones that injured his wrists. Aragorn did not struggle. There was no point in it, he saved the little strength he had left and tensed in anticipation of that, what would follow. First, the pull to his arms lessened as they released the ends of the chains that connected the manacles through the circles in the ceiling to the hooks in the wall. Suddenly the pull renewed, much stronger then before, his body was strained to the uttermost, and the shackles dug into his wrists and ankles. He cried out in pain as his muscles screamed in protest, as the strain opened his wounds again, and as it shifted the broken ribs.

The Mouth of Sauron watched as the orcs attached heavy loads to the chains, and a slight smirk played on his lips, as the tension in the man’s body grew, and a cold sweat covered his shivering body. He just stood there, and watched the man grit his teeth in agony. It seemed as though he would be able to watch for hours. After a long while he took a few steps and faced the tortured man.

“So. What about telling me everything you know now? There are many more loads that can be added…” 

The man looked up, the answer evident in his eyes. Mouth of Sauron took a step back. “As you wish…” he hissed.

Aragorn cried out as the pull increased. Sweat dripped off of his forehead, and mixed with blood. He felt his shoulders dislocating, his tendons strained to the breaking point. _It hurts… Oh, Valar, it hurts so much!_ His vision grew blurry, and with every labored breath he groaned through gritted teeth. Long and excruciating time passed before the masked pale face drew nearer again, and it was as though through a thick cloth that he heard the voice, asking, demanding answers, promising reprieve…

And Aragorn knew there would be no reprieve; he would feel the agony of every torturous moment… for how long? Until death claims him… and the Dark Lord knew many arts of delaying it. Yes, and that was good, he tried to convince himself, Frodo needs time… He had no doubts about his answer… and its consequences.

“Never…” he whispered, barely audible, in an exhale of pain.

The world erupted in a fountain of pain. He screamed as the pull increased, reaching the levels of agony he wouldn’t think possible. He screamed as his shoulders dislocated from their sockets, his other joints threatening to follow soon. He screamed as his tendons began to tear. He wasn’t aware of his surroundings anymore, and, after another scream, he passed out…

The Mouth of Sauron watched the entire time, furious at the man’s resistance… and a bit fascinated by it. It was a challenge – to break him, make him speak… and to not kill him before he does. The black Númenorean liked challenges. Now he would not allow him this reprieve! He would make him feel every moment, to the border where human body looses consciousness in unbearable pain – and beyond! He gave a short order, and the orcs left the cell, and in a while they returned with the armfuls of black wood.

They made a bonfire from a few logs in front of the unconscious man, and the Mouth of Sauron ignited it with a torch. The wood caught on fire immediately, and burned slowly, with a short dark flame that twisted and flickered in sickening shapes. The unnaturally thick black smoke rose from the wood, reaching the prisoner’s face.

Aragorn coughed violently, his chest aching with the spasms like knife-stabs beneath his ribs. The smoke ripped him out of unconsciousness, and anchored him in his body, in the centre of pain, where his every muscle begged for release from the pull. He moaned, and shut his eyes firmly against the stinging smoke and the waves of agony. _No…Frodo…Argonath…it hurts! it hurts so much…Argonath_... _steady…oh Ada, it hurts!_... _no…steady… unbreakable…_

The pain did not lessen for but a moment, and the smoke did not allow him to pass out, nor retreat into himself. It made him feel every excruciating moment in its cruel intensity. His surroundings ceased to exist, leaving him in his own universe of pain. It was more a feeling then his failing senses that told him that his tormentors had left, leaving him alone in the darkness, with the loads that strained his tortured body, and the burning fire that anchored him in it. _steady… unbreakable… Ada! please…_

Tears of pain ran down his cheeks, and breathing was more and more difficult, he longed for a gulp of clear air instead of the sharp, choking smoke that filled his lungs. The heat from the fire was rising and blistering his skin, making the thirst unbearable. His throat was painfully dry and his lips parched, he felt as if molten metal circled in his veins instead of blood. _Ada_ _…_

He looked at the dark fire and for a brief moment it changed before his eyes, he was in Rivendell again, and this was the fireplace in the Hall of Fire. Songs rang in the air, sweet and wistful like only the elven songs could be… He felt a gentle hand caress his cheek, the hand of his foster-father, and he was young again, he was Estel…

The next labored inhale of the sharp smoke brought him back to reality, to Barad Dûr, to Mordor, to pain… He didn’t know how long he had been there already, every second felt like eternity. And there was nothing to distract him from the pain. The fire was unclean and malicious, not the ever-burning fire in Rivendell. But he _is_ Estel, still… And amid suffering, in the centre of the raging storm of hatred and malice, burning with fever and unspeakable agony, he began to sing.

No voice came from his parched throat; he desperately needed every gulp of air through the smoke for his aching lungs. He sang in his mind, the elven words that came on their own, imprinted deep in his memory, the words that he heard uncounted times in the Hall of Fire…

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel,_  
_silivren penna míriel_  
 _o menel aglar elenath!_  
 _Na-chared palan-díriel_  
 _o galadhremmin ennorath,_  
 _Fanuilos, le linnathon_  
 _nef aear, sí nef aearon!_

_O Elbereth!_ There was still something fair in this world, although he wouldn’t see it anymore… The stars wandered the velvet night sky, and the trees grew tall and fair in Lothlórien, the leaves that do not wither, but turn to gold. Tall and proud stood the towers of Minas Tirith, the city of the Sea-kings, shining in the gathering darkness. Never more would he behold these sights, but the light might yet prevail, and the others would relish their beauty…

At the end of the song he wavered, the agony threatened to overwhelm him, but he began another song, the Lay of Lúthien that was imprinted not only in his mind, but in his heart: it was the song that he sang when he first met Arwen under the white birches in the Elrond’s garden, mistaking her for the embodiment of his song. He remembered her eyes that shone like stars in the evening above the hill of Cerin Amroth. She would sail to the West and bear their love to the Undying lands, the memory of what could have been… _Arwen vanimelda, namárië!_

Then he sang of Eärendil as the song that Bilbo composed came to his mind. He had asked him for help with the verses… it seemed ages ago. In pain, he thought of his ancestor’s star, sailing upon the skies, looking over the shadowed Middle-earth. Did Eärendil see him in his suffering? Did he know that the last of his mortal son’s line hung dying alone in the Dark Tower? There were no stars that shone in Mordor… Aragorn remembered how he insisted that Bilbo write a green stone into the poem. The same stone he received from Lady Galadriel. _Elessar, Elfstone_ … The name was foretold to him, yet never would he come to bear it. The green stone was in his thoughts, and the shadows lessened when he looked through it.

For many hours, he sang to forget the agony surging through his body, and battled with the darkness enveloping him like black smoke. For many hours of terrible pain, he sang in his mind, and only his ragged breathing and inaudible moans revealed that he was conscious through it all. Many hours passed, but to him, they were ages, and the old legends of songs unfolded in their own time, while he suffered in the dark cells of Barad Dûr. 


	7. Reeling and foundering, as ever more strong

_In western lands beneath the Sun_  
the flowers may rise in Spring,  
the trees may bud, the waters run,  
the merry finches sing…

He did not know where this song came from, was it in his mind... or was it in the very air of this dreadful place? He did not remember hearing it before, but by now his memories and the images from songs and the pain had been all mixed together, creating a sort of waking dream.

_Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night_  
and swaying beeches bear  
the Elven-stars as jewels white   
amid their branching hair…

The song brought a memory of light into the dark place; it carried him to the western lands that were clean from the taint of Mordor beneath the light of stars, shimmering between the leaves of the tall beeches in Elrond’s gardens. _Rivendell_ … O, blessed valley that concealed one jewel brighter then any gems in the world…

* * *

The elven maid was sleeping peacefully, her dark hair sprawled over the white pillow, her hand resting on the sheets, and the air was sweet around her as her chest heaved with calm breath. A slight smile played on the corner of her lips, as if she was dreaming about something pleasant, someone dear to her was coming to her in dreams, maybe.

Then her breath quickened and she stirred in sleep, furrowing her fair brow, and she reached with her hand to touch something or someone that wasn’t there, or perhaps just to turn the dark dreams away. She moaned and tossed in her sleep, small drops of sweat covered her forehead; then she cried out, and her eyes fluttered wide open.

“No!” Her desperate scream echoed in the hallways of the peaceful house. She sat on her bed shivering, and looked at the dark room before her with unseeing eyes that filled with tears. She reached with her slender hand into the air before her in a movement so gentle and tender, as if her hand could reach through long miles and cool a fevered brow, soothe the pain…

As though from a great distance, she heard her name. “Arwen!” She didn’t pay attention to the voice, the voice wasn’t _his_. “Arwen…” She felt strong arms embracing her, but the arms weren’t _his_. But now the image before her eyes faded quickly, and the dark room came to her sight, her room in the Last Homely House. A choked sob escaped her.

“Ada!” she whispered with shaking voice. “He… he is in pain…” She couldn’t hold the tears any longer. “He is… dying…” She wept in the strong embrace of her father, who hung his head and closed his eyes firmly, in a wave of despair as he held her close. He knew who his daughter spoke of. She spoke of Hope… 

* * *

Aragorn was alone. Alone in the darkness and pain. There he sang, and the tunes of the song were like silver threads floating in the air, and they wove themselves into window-frame that looked out of the darkness, where the stars shone…

_Though here at journey's end I lie  
in darkness buried deep…_

He felt a light touch on his face, and the air was sweet with the fragrance of elanor. The touch brought comfort like cool water in a scorched land; it eased his suffering and brought a ghost of smile to the corners of his lips…

_beyond all towers strong and high,  
beyond all mountains steep…_

Somebody was here, trying to yank him out of the song, to tear the soothing touch from him. Aragorn fought desperately to hold it, and to block out the surroundings that assaulted his senses.

_above all shadows rides the Sun…  
_

There were voices, evil and malicious, that shouted and threatened, and one of the voices was so near that he felt the poison dripping of it like real drops of cold on his skin. The words were slurred in his ears, but two words were repeated, louder and louder to the point where they were painful. _Ring… tell… Ring…tell…where is the Ring…tell me where the Ring is! THE RING!!!_

_and Stars for ever dwell…_

New pain erupted in the exactly same place as the gentle touch had caressed his cheek a few moments ago, a blow of an armoured fist instead of the tender silky fingers. He moaned quietly, not because of the pain – it was only a drop to the ocean of agony filling his body – but because the bond of touch had been severed, and all the darkness returned. He felt something solid hoisted to his parched lips, like a bottle with some type of liquid. For a brief moment he hoped that it was water… cool water, like the spray dancing at the feet of a waterfall, like rain whispering in the leaves, even a puddle of rainwater would do… he desperately longed for water to soothe his dry, burning throat…

_I will not say… the Day is… done…_

It was not water. The liquid tasted like blood, and burned in his mouth like fire. He tried to spit it out, but a rough hand covered his mouth and made him swallow. The burning sense spread in his body, enhancing his senses. He felt some strength return to him, and his hearing sharpened, and vision focused, but so did his sensitivity to pain, too, as the fire circled in his veins. 

_nor…_

_nor… bid the…_

His eyes focused on a face, on a nightmare. The Mouth of Sauron… oh, how he became to know every line of that face… how he became to hate it! It promised more suffering, more pain… 

_the Stars…_

It asked and promised and tempted him with the vision of rest. How he hated it! Again it asked but Aragorn ignored the question…

_farewell…_

Fire! Pain! He cried out as he felt as if his body was being ripped apart. They must have added next loads, he realized hazily while screaming from the depth of his abused throat. He felt that his body could not endure any more strain; the next load would kill him… A part of his mind felt a faint relief at the thought, while all the other parts screamed in pain.

But no, the Mouth of Sauron knew this, too. Of course he knew it… No more loads were added, and it left Aragorn in delirium on the verge of the possibilities of his body. No more loads were added, but the pain seemed to increase with every passing second. The songs were gone, and the black wood burned with thick smoke. How much pain could a Man feel? Aragorn didn’t know, and feared the answer.

The Black Númenorean was furious. Nobody resisted him thus! And his Master was getting impatient… His eyes narrowed dangerously when he watched the delirious man that refused to be broken. Never averting his eyes from the shivering figure, he drew his sword… The prisoner slowly opened his glazed eyes into narrow slots, and looked at him. The Mouth of Sauron longed to thrust the sword into those steely eyes, and extinguish their light forever. But his Master would not be pleased…

No, he did not end the man’s life; he knew that it would be a release for him. No, no release for the heir of Isildur. He put the sword into the black fire at the prisoner’s feet and waited. The man seemed to understand, and his widened eyes created a small satisfaction to the Black Númenorean. He didn’t rush, however. He waited until the metal turned red-hot… and then a while longer.

Aragorn couldn’t help himself but watch as the sword turned red, and shiver in anticipation. He couldn’t imagine being in _more_ pain, but he knew it will come as sure as he knew that if he failed, the whole Middle-earth would fall with him. For a moment he was tempted to release his spirit from the tortured body - now, before they can hurt him anymore... He tried to clear his thoughts.

_But Frodo_ … It was like a quiet sob in his mind. _What… What if he needs… more time?_

No. Not yet. He did not want to repeat the mistake that had almost caused his failure… but couldn’t hold back the whimpers of pain when he watched the cruel sword being lifted from the fire and nearing his naked skin… slowly… so slowly… He could feel the heat radiating from it, becoming unbearable as the hot metal came within inches of his bruised abdomen. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, his breath quickened...

The pain shot through his entire being, red-hot and consuming. He screamed without even realizing it, a primal, feral sound, even after he thought that he hadn’t even possessed enough strength to scream anymore. A wild look came into his eyes as his head tilted backwards and his back arched, then his body tried to curl into a ball futilely. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, mixing with the black smoke that did not allow him to pass out. The seconds passed like eons, and still the sword was pressed against his skin, burning, biting, freezing, devouring…

Finally it was withdrawn, in one quick but terrible movement that jerked off the burned skin stuck to the hot metal, leaving a deep, open wound. He screamed again and his head fell forward limply, his breath quick in shallow, shuddering intakes. He felt the racing beat of his heart like a drum beating in his head, like a dark pressure with every pulse. The shapes of his surroundings became hazy and contorted, with only one clear point – the glow of the metal in fire…

As though hypnotized by the glow, he watched it as it neared again, and awaited the inevitable, sobbing openly. He was beyond the point of caring for dignity now; the only thing he cared for was _to endure_ … In his mind, he called to his _Ada_ like a hurt child, but no comforting images came with the name. He was alone, naked in the darkness, and the red-hot metal was nearing…

It touched his chest, and then was pressed firmly, sending tendrils of pure agony through his body. The body didn’t belong to him anymore, he couldn’t control the tearing screams that emanated from it, nor the spasms of pain as it writhed in agony, all the time strained painfully on the verge of its possibilities. All what he possessed was pain, white-hot pain that filled his entire universe. It came in waves, flooding him anew with every touch of the dreaded sword, and lasted for eternity before ebbing a little only to return again, even more excruciating. 

It went on, and on, and Aragorn lost all sense of time, or the number of burns inflicted to his body. The screams abated – now, he really had no strength left in his body. When the hot metal touched his skin again, an almost inaudible moan was the only sign that he had felt it. Oh, but he felt it. How he felt it!

He felt the dirty bottle pressed to his lips again. Blood and fire filled his mouth as he was forced to swallow. The fire spread in his veins, bringing new strength, but enhancing the pain to unbearable levels. _No! Stop! Stop it! Please, make it stop!_ And a small, distant part of his mind said: _Now… now is the time… they won’t break you…_ He did not react to the voices that demanded his attention and answers. His mind was distant from his body when he finally prepared to release his spirit.

In that moment, his shackles were released and his strained body suddenly relaxed, although the pain didn’t lessen. The surprise of it stopped him for a moment. Unable to support himself, he fell into a pitiful heap on the ground, away from the black smoke. There, overwhelmed by pain, unconsciousness claimed him immediately. The last thing he was aware of were rough hands lifting him and dragging him somewhere and then, finally, everything went black and he was floating on the waves of darkness… floating… away… 


	8. I will not let the White City fall

The Mouth of Sauron watched the prisoner as he was carried away. Never before had anybody resisted him so. He wondered what the power was that helped the man to keep his secrets through the long days of excruciating pain. If he only had more time! He was sure that he could make him speak yet! If he didn’t kill him before… But the Dark Lord needed answers, and he needed them quickly. There was only one way…

By a violent wrenching against his will, Aragorn was jerked out of the oblivion of unconsciousness. Blinding pain and sense of dread enveloped him instantly, his body felt as though it had been thrown into a malicious fire and burned alive. He screamed – a last, shivery scream in a spasm of pain that arched his body in agony. His eyes opened wide in a scream that cost him the last of his strength. Then he hung limp, with no strength to reveal the suffering he felt. He as only dimly aware of the position of his body. He was in a high place, and hung by his right hand, which was chained to the wall, with no support for his legs. The manacle was tight on his already wounded wrist, and his dislocated shoulder ached hellishly in this position. He barely felt it – he was in so much pain that he couldn’t discern the individual pains from each other. 

But the pain of his body was nothing in comparison with the violent presence in his mind, a presence like devouring fire. He had felt it before – through the palantír and in the terrible moment while in the clutches of the Nazgûl’s beast. He despaired then, for he knew where he was. He was naked before the Eye. He saw flames – roaring tongues of fire encircling a pit of nothingness that pulled his mind into its dark depths like a maelstrom. 

Nothing else existed – just he and the Eye, as it searched his mind for the Ring, burning it with its violent touch. Aragorn gasped, and tried to resist. He had done it before; he wrenched the Orthanc stone from His will. But now… he could not go on any longer. He had no strength left. He was weary. So weary… and in so much pain… And nothing else existed. Vaguely, Aragorn remembered that he had wanted to do something, to escape before He finds out… He couldn’t think, his mind was burning alive! His body was burning alive! His spirit was burning alive! Fire and pain… and nothing else existed… 

He hung limply by one hand, but his mind writhed and screamed in agony. In the hell of malicious flames, twanged one weak thought. _Now… Now is the time…_ He felt his spirit part with his body, and he looked up in anticipation of peace and light, of reprieve… 

He was shaken by a sudden pull and impact as he was violently returned to the prison of his body. There was no light: he was in a cage of fire and darkness and pure evil, and the will of Sauron did not allow him to escape. _No…Please no…_ A weak, shuddering moan brushed past his lips, revealing all his pain and weariness and despair here, at the end of all… 

* * *

_Sam drew a deep breath. There was a path, but how he was to get up the slope to it he did not know. First he must ease his aching back. He lay flat beside Frodo for a while. Neither spoke. Slowly the light grew. Suddenly a sense of urgency which he did not understand came to Sam. It was almost as if he had been called: “Now, now, or it will be too late!” He braced himself and got up. Frodo also seemed to have felt the call. He struggled to his knees._

_“I’ll crawl, Sam,” he gasped._

_So foot by foot, like small grey insects, they crept up the slope. They came to the path and found that it was broad, paved with broken rubble and beaten ash. Frodo clambered on to it, and then moved as if by some compulsion he turned slowly to face the East. Far off the shadows of Sauron hung; but torn by some gust of wind out of the world, or else moved by some great disquiet within, the mantling clouds swirled, and for a moment drew aside; and then he saw, rising black, blacker and darker than the vast shades amid which it stood, the cruel pinnacles and iron crown of the topmost tower of Barad-dûr. One moment only it stared out, but as from some great window immeasurably high there stabbed northward a flame of red, the flicker of a piercing Eye; and then the shadows were furled again and the terrible vision was removed. The Eye was not turned to them:_

In the short vision, Frodo saw a figure shielding them from its sight. The man was chained and bleeding from many wounds. Matted dark hair hung before his face, and he was deathly pale, like a specter of the old kings from the sea depths that were once Númenor. Pain and suffering were etched deeply in his haggard features, and his sunken eyes were glazed over as though in some inner battle when he looked up. Frodo felt those silver eyes piercing his heart with the voiceless plea. _Go on…You must…_

“Strider…” Frodo whispered. 

* * *

_Frodo…_ Aragorn felt the presence of the Eye in his mind as it neared the place where he tried to conceal the priceless secret… and he was helpless, he couldn’t resist the terrible will. _Frodo…_ He saw the Halfling, crawling up the slopes of a dark mountain. He saw the Ring like a wheel of fire at his breast. _Frodo…_ So near to the goal… But so far, so unreachable for Aragorn when every second of resisting was like centuries of fierce battle… _Go on… You must…_

_I must…_ Aragorn needed to win the precious time for Frodo: to fight and resist as long as possible. Desperately, he reached deep into himself for the last bits of his strength. And there, in the place where he felt the Halfling’s eyes touch his soul, he found _Estel_. The small flicker of hope that was a beacon of light that the darkness couldn’t extinguish. It was there: the path was lost in smoke, but he felt it, and followed the feeling. He fled there, pursued by the flame, and there he turned on his last stand. This was the place where he would die…

With that thought he looked up, straight into the void of the lidless Eye… and he remembered the many layers of things, and the Song beneath it all. He saw it again – the twisted tunes dancing a dizzying dance that formed the shape of the Eye. There, on the last stand, facing the darkness, Aragorn son of Arathorn reached for the light of hope, and felt the clear and immaculate tunes of the Music of Ainur. From the tunes he wove a song, forming them into walls of defense, protecting the secret of two little hobbits and the fate of Middle-earth. 

His song took a shape of a fortress – a white city with a tall, proud tower like a spike of pearl and silver encircled by seven mighty walls of stone. _Minas Tirith…_ The White City, the last shield against the darkness. The waves of flame shattered upon the walls. Everything burned, but the City stood untouched, for the will of Isildur’s heir was in its very walls. 

The two songs wrestled fiercely, and the dark, twisted song took the shape of a ram, mighty and dreadful, and it pounded heavily upon the First Gate. But Aragorn reached into himself, and found the melody of old legends: about resisting, about mighty warriors and brave Elven-lords, about his ancestors and heroes of old, about their struggles and victories… From these images he drew strength when he had none left in his broken body. From these images like a song himself came Finrod Felagund, and stood before the gate, singing with Aragorn’s voice a song of light against the song of darkness. 

_He chanted a song of wizardry,_   
_Of piercing, opening, of treachery,_   
_Revealing, uncovering, betraying._   
_Then sudden Felagund there swaying_   
_Sang in answer a song of staying,_   
_Resisting, battling against power,_   
_Of secrets kept, strength like a tower,_   
_And trust unbroken, freedom, escape;_   
_Of changing and of shifting shape,_   
_Of snares eluded, broken traps,_   
_The prison opening, the chain that snaps._   
_Backwards and forwards swayed their song._   
_Reeling and foundering, as ever more strong_   
_The chanting swelled, Felagund fought,_   
_And all the magic and might he brought_   
_Of Elvenesse into his words._   
_Softly in the gloom they heard the birds_   
_Singing afar in Nargothrond,_   
_The sighing of the Sea beyond,_   
_Beyond the western world, on sand,_   
_On sand of pearls in Elvenland._

But Sauron, too, remembered the song of the Elven-lord, and the sea of flame roared and darkened like blood.

_Then the gloom gathered; darkness growing_   
_In Valinor, the red blood flowing_   
_Beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew_   
_The Foamriders, and stealing drew_   
_Their white ships with their white sails_   
_From lamplit havens. The wind wails,_   
_The wolf howls, the ravens flee._   
_The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea._   
_The captives sad in Angband mourn._   
_Thunder rumbles, the fires burn –_   
_And Finrod fell before the throne._

The gate cracked, and Aragorn felt the blow as if something broke in his own spirit. The flames flooded the first circle, and it was his own spirit that burned. It was an agony incomparable to anything he felt before, and the walls wavered, but then stood strong, resisting again as the ram thundered on the Second Gate. 

And there, before the gate, stood Gil-Galad and Elendil in the Last Alliance: the shining helm and mighty sword, arm in arm awaiting the impact of darkness, their faces bright with determination. Elendil’s eyes were stormy grey, and Gil-Galad’s blue like the sea – like the eyes of Aragorn of Men and Legolas of Elves in their Last Alliance. The darkness wavered and drew back beneath their gaze. Sauron remembered… But then it rushed forward with a new hatred and took a shape of a tall figure in dark armour, wielding a terrible mace. 

They fought together, two figures of light enveloped by dark flames, two brothers in arms at the end of all. Valiantly they fought, their moves complementing each other’s without words. When one wavered, the second was there and averted the deadly blow. When one was losing his courage facing the horrifying evil, the second was there to rekindle it. 

But alas! They were tiring, and received many wounds. Together they fought until they had some strength left, and beyond. And together they fell. Narsil shattered. Their eyes met in their last moment when the blood of an Elf and a Man soaked into the soil without difference. The Second Gate fell under the mighty swings of the mace, and flames spread to the second circle, burning and devouring. The old legends were dead, burned by the unclean fire. A pained scream echoed in the White City. 

Aragorn cried out in pain, but the scream ended in a battle-cry as the third wall stood in the path of the flame. And the battle cry was answered – by many voices, steady and loyal. The Dúnedain stood before the Third Gate! They did not waver as the darkness was approaching – just as they did not waver as Rangers fighting for the safety of the little folk in its blissful ignorance. As they did not waver on the Paths of the Dead, led by the love for their Captain. As they did not waver on the field of Pelennor in the day without sunrise. Halbarad led them, bearing the standard of the White Tree. As one they drew their swords with Aragorn’s battle cry on their lips. 

They fought with all their skill and experience of a hard, long life in secrecy, the descendants of Númenor harbouring the line of Kings. Until the end they resisted the darkness. Until the last drop of blood… But they couldn’t hold back the mighty force. They fell, one by one, as valiantly as they fought. With every fallen ranger Aragorn felt a pang of sorrow, for he knew them all by name and by heart, they were his kin, and he was their Captain. At the end, Halbarad stood alone before the gate, the sword firmly in his hand, and clean fire in his eyes. “Elendil!” he cried out, and plunged forwards against the wall of darkness. 

Time stood still for a moment, and then Halbarad fell to his knees, blood flowing freely from a deep wound in his chest. “I’m sorry Captain…” he whispered as his eyes glassed over. “No!” Aragorn’s voice echoed with anguish as the Third Gate fell. The memories burned: he had no kin… 

Two figures stepped forward to meet the darkness. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes grey as the sea under storm-clouds, leading the second figure: a woman clad in sky-blue robes, her face gentle, and a slight smile on her lips. Together they stood before the gate, hand in hand. _Mother… Father…_ A strange power radiated from the two figures, and the darkness stopped before it like water that hit the dam. It was the power of guarding, the power of a mother protecting her child. It was parental love… The shadows parted and took shape. A host of orcs faced now the pair. Arathorn drew his sword and stepped before Gilraen… 

Dozens of dead enemies lay now in the dust at his feet. But they were too many… “Save our son…” were Arathorn’s last whispered words to his wife. She stood tall and proud in her grief, determined to fulfil her husband’s last wish. But there were no more orcs – just shadows. They engulfed her, tightening closer and closer, and she bowed her head in despair, and slowly she withered like a flower without sun. So died the memory of Gilraen before the Fourth Gate, and the gate could not hold back the flames of darkness any longer. 

“No…” a moaned whisper shook the white walls. Aragorn had no parents anymore, as the memories of them burned in the fourth level of the fortress of song. 

Oh, but he did have family! They stood before the Fifth Gate: a tall Elven-lord, his eyes like a bright evening and two younger Elves, dark-haired twins. _Ada_ _! Gwadur nîn!_ His elven family that accepted a human child as one of their own, that raised him and loved him like their own, accepting the pain of his mortality in exchange for love that they gave him. They were there to turn away the childhood fears and nightmares. They named him _Estel…_ But now the nightmares were real, and they stood fair and proud, ready to protect their foster son and brother. 

Elladan and Elrohir readied their bows. Aragorn knew their movements by heart – many times has he watched them when they taught him to fire the bow. Elrond’s hands clutched on the shaft of a spear. His hands… They were the hands of a healer. Many times had Aragorn felt their touch when he was injured or ill. They soothed the pain and brought relief. _Ada_ _…_ Aragorn called for him in the darkest hours of his suffering, he longed to feel his hands again. But no, Elrond wasn’t there, he couldn’t help the son of his heart, there were no hands to sooth his pain, just the rough hands of the tormentors. Now it was Aragorn’s memory of him that stood in defence of the Fifth Gate, but it felt as if the Elven-lord himself was present, and his strength sustained Aragorn’s will. 

But not even Elrond and his sons had enough strength to resist the Dark Lord. Aragorn watched them as they were slain by His hand, and his very soul was torn apart. They died with one word on their lips. _Estel…_ After the Fifth Gate cracked, the flames flooded another part of his spirit with indescribable pain, and he had no family anymore. 

Yet still there were some bonds strengthening his will.

_You have my sword…_

_And you have my bow…_

_And my axe!_...

_Mr. Frodo is not goin’ anywhere without me!_...

The bonds of fellowship… Friendship and loyalty until the fires of Mordor. They stood before the Sixth Gate:

Gandalf was there. _Mithrandir_ … A wise and kind friend on his many travels. Old man by appearance, fond of pipe-weed and the little folk, with friendly laugh and a sparkle in his eyes, yet he concealed something more: a powerful Maia whose mind moved the events of Middle-earth. Without him, Sauron would have triumphed long ago. Gandalf the Grey, who fell on the bridge of Khazad-dûm to return from beyond the circles of the world as Gandalf the White, wielding the secret Flame of Anor. Gandalf, Mithrandir, Tharkûn, Incánus, Stormcrow, Olórin… Friend. 

Legolas and Gimli stood side by side: The Axe and the Bow, the Leaf and the Stone. A deep friendship found like a pearl in the shell of these dark times. Boromir was there, a proud son of Gondor, strong and honourable. And the hobbits, little folk doing great things surprising even the Wise. Merry and Pippin stood there, and smiled. Despite the darkness, despite the shadows, they smiled… Frodo and Sam weren’t with the Fellowship – that thought was the secret that Aragorn fought to conceal, drawing strength from the memories of his companions. 

Darkness engulfed them, even more menacing then the shadow and flame of Balrog. They stood together, fighting back to back, protecting each other. Gimli and Legolas counted their hits, even when their own wounds were just so numerous. They faced death, but they were strong, for they were together, dying at the side of a friend. The hobbits fell first, and Aragorn’s heart bled as he saw the light leave their eyes. They weren’t meant to fight in this war… they shouldn’t be here, in this dark place. They should have been in the Shire, drinking pints at the Green Dragon and having mushrooms for second breakfast… 

Then Boromir fell, pierced by many black arrows, hailing him as a King with his last breath. And Aragorn promised him again, as he did before: _I will not let the White City fall_ … Oh, but alas! It was already falling, and Aragorn did not have the strength of will to resist the Dark Lord and to protect the memories of his companions. Legolas and Gimli fell as they fought: side by side, with a slight smile as they looked into each other’s eyes for their contest ended undecided. 

Gandalf stood alone before the gate, and a bright light shone in his hand. “You shall not pass!” The light burst forth, and the darkness wavered and parted in its path. “You shall not pass!” Light radiated from the figure of the wizard, but the darkness gathered, and then rushed forward and swallowed him. For a while the light fought the darkness, but it was choked by its pure mass. The flame was extinguished, and the Sixth Gate fell in a cry of anguish from Aragorn, as the bonds of fellowship were severed in flames. 

There was only one last bond connecting him with the world. His most precious memory that guided him on his long travels, and helped him to find the path when he was lost, like the star shining in darkness. Arwen Undómiel stood before the Seventh Gate, and she was like a jewel in the crown of twilight, like a sweet song beneath the mallorn leaves. Her eyes shone with love, and the sheer power of that feeling held the darkness at bay. _Arwen vanimelda…_

_“You said you'd bind yourself to me. Forsaking the immortal life of your people.”_

_“And to that I hold. I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone…_

_I choose a mortal life.”_

_“You cannot give me this!”_

_“It is mine to give to whom I will... like my heart.”_

“Oh my Evenstar, you gave me your heart, and I have nothing to give you back…My life ends here, and we will not meet again. I wish you could find your heart in the Undying Lands and be happy again... I wish you could see Middle-earth without shadow, and your standard flying high on the top of Ecthelion’s tower… But your love gives me hope that maybe you will see Middle-earth cleansed of evil, even if I won’t be there to show you the sunrise upon Mindolluin. Thank you for being with me until the end, my beloved! I’m so sorry to leave you to grieving…”

Arwen’s eyes shone with her love, and the darkness shrank beneath her sight. The flames roared and rushed forward, and stopped as if on invisible wall. They roared more angrily, and again, and again hit the wall, and with every hit they came nearer to the shining figure. Finally the wall broke, and flames enveloped her. For long moments she stood in the raging fire, tall and proud, unchanged. Like a flower of diamond, like a Queen of old she stood, and her eyes shone like stars in twilight. Then the flames swallowed her, and she was no more. 

The Seventh Gate fell, and the cry that echoed through the burning city was like nothing that a single living being had heared before. It was a cry of pure anguish and despair from a man that had lost everything he had. All of his memories and bonds burned, and the pain of it tempted him to give up and succumb to the darkness. 

The darkness took shape of a figure in dark armor again, terrible to see, and the rest of the Seventh Gate crumpled beneath its feet. The White City of song was in flames, defeated and vanquished. Nothing stood between the Dark Lord and his Ring. For this moment he had waited for long thousands of years – revenge and reuniting with the lost part of his power. He broke the will of the heir of Isildur, and now he would know the secret that he tried to conceal! 

Suddenly, another figure appeared, and stepped into Sauron’s path. The man stood calmly, unwavering as his steely gaze met the pits of shadow and flame that were Sauron’s eyes. He spoke: 

“I am Estel.” 

He had nothing left: no memories, no past. No future… The only thing he had was he himself. He still knew _who_ he is… With his bare soul, he stood before the Lord of Darkness, and light was shining in his eyes. There he was – on the very end, in the highest level of a burning city. Yet he stood proudly, and it seemed as if a winged crown was on his head. The suffering didn’t break him, and he didn’t lose himself in the darkness. He didn’t fail. There was only one thing left to do. 

Aragorn drew his sword. It was like a stream of clear light, and Sauron stepped back for he knew this sword. _Andúril,_ Flame of the West – the Blade that was Broken, but still was strong enough to cut his finger with the Ring, reforged anew, and shining with the light of the Blessed Realms. But then the flames roared, and a dark sword appeared in Sauron’s hand and it was like a night without dawn and darkness swallowing the light. 

The sword of darkness fell, and crushed into the sword of light, and the sheer force of the impact send Aragorn to his knees. The next blow followed the first, but Aragorn was no longer in the same place. He managed to stand up and parry the blow, but the dark sword nearly broke through his cover. It was an uneven fight. Aragorn knew he couldn’t win, but he fought with all his might for the spark of hope. His hands trembled with the effort of parrying the mighty blows that he couldn’t avoid, and his breath ragged in his chest. 

For every possibility to thrust and harm Sauron he paid dearly, and none of them wounded the Dark Lord. But Aragorn was covered in blood from numerous wounds, and fought the pain that every movement caused him. It weakened his defense even more, and as one mighty blow broke through and caught his side like a tongue of dark flame, he cried out in pain. Warm blood rushed from the wound, and Aragorn clutched it with his left hand, wielding the sword single-handed. 

The picture before his eyes swam dizzily, and flames burned everywhere around him. He barely found the strength to bring his sword up, but he managed to divert the blow meant to crush his collar bone and hit his heart. But the following thrust hit him into the shoulder, and he cried out, and, slipping from the dark blade, he sunk to his knees. Crimson blood ran down his arms and torso, and created a red pool at his feet, mirroring the twisted dance of flames.

Andúril fell from his hand. He had done everything he could. He had no strength left: neither in his tortured body, nor in his exhausted spirit. He looked straight into Sauron’s eyes as he awaited the deadly final blow. He saw the wicked blade fall, but did not close his eyes. 

The blade stopped suddenly as a voice was heard like from a great distance, but near in the same time: 

_„I have come. But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine! “_

Aragorn saw fear in Sauron’s eyes, and the figure in dark armor turned and disappeared as the lidless Eye averted its gaze from him, searching for his Ring in Mount Doom in sudden panic, _for he knew his deadly peril and the thread upon which his doom now hung._

Aragorn’s trembling spirit fell slowly to the ground of the defeated fortress of song, bleeding from many wounds. Everything around him burned. 

“Frodo… No…” he whispered. “Please… You can do it… You have the strength… I believe you…” His vision slowly faded. 

_A brief vision he had of swirling cloud, and in the midst of it towers and battlements, tall as hills, founded upon a mighty mountain-throne above immeasurable pits; great courts and dungeons, eyeless prisons sheer as cliffs, and gaping gates of steel and adamant: and then all passed. Towers fell and mountains slid; walls crumbled and melted, crashing down; vast spires of smoke and spouting steams went billowing up, up, until they toppled like an overwhelming wave, and its wild crest curled and came foaming down upon the land._

He lay in his own blood on the highest level of a burned city. The fires around him were extinguished, and he felt that the earth had been cleansed from a great evil. _„The realm of Sauron is ended! The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest...“_ A great peace washed over Aragorn. _It’s over…_

And then the clouds parted, and revealed a single star _. Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima!_ Its light filled his eyes, blurred by the tears of relief. His spirit reached to the light and he was flying! Up, up to the sky, following the Star of Hope, leaving his battered body behind… 


	9. The prison opening, the chain that snaps

A tall figure in white robes stood on the highest level of the White City, looking eastwards; the wrinkles of worry creasing his face.

“Gandalf…” a Halfling in the garb of the Citadel Guard approached noiselessly, as the Halflings did, barefoot.

The wizard winced as his thoughts were interrupted, and then turned to Pippin with a flicker of kind light in his eyes. 

“They say that Minas Tirith will fall…” the hobbit said, following the line of the wizard’s gaze. A great host marched from the east: orcs and wicked men and foul creatures. Gandalf did not answer, and his look changed to one of a great sorrow. 

Pippin’s eyes widened. “But… But we won! We defeated the Black army, and Éowyn and Merry felled the Witch King! How can it be then, that there are so many left?”

Gandalf sighed, and sat down on a bench so that his gaze was level with the hobbit’s. “The Dark Lord is powerful, and many creatures serve him in his purposes. But there is always hope, brave Peregrin. If not in the strong walls and the arms of men defending them, then in other places, dark and unexpected.”

“Frodo?” Pippin whispered.

“Aye. I feel that Sauron has not yet gotten his Ring. And that he sends his whole army against Minas Tirith gives me hope. The way to the Mount Doom should be free…”

But as he said it, the sorrow lingered in his face as he turned to look to the east again, not at the approaching army, but farther, beyond the Mountains of Shadow where the Eye of Barad Dûr lurked in the darkness. He didn’t tell the young hobbit why Sauron was raising his army. The Dark Lord expected to join with the power of his Ring soon – and then Minas Tirith will be the first in line to fall under the shadow swallowing the whole Middle-earth. The one who knew the secret was in his hands… Gandalf looked to the east, and thought of Aragorn son of Arathorn. It had been ten days already…

The hosts of Mordor besieged the White City, then. The men stood on the walls, prepared to fight desperately, with the grim determination of those who cannot win, and who walk without doubts into the arms of fate. The air was thick with the shrieks of the winged Nazgûl.

But still they waited: once already had Sauron’s army broken its teeth on the white walls. Now he did not want to take any chances. They would attack as soon as he found his Ring, and then their attack would be terrible. The eagles came from the north like a memory of another tale, and strengthened the lines of the defenders. And still nothing moved, and Gandalf was looking to the east. _Frodo… Aragorn…_

Then… something happened. Suddenly the atmosphere changed – as if the tables had been turned. Those who felt the suffocating encirclement of a dark menace tightening around them, found sudden hope in their hearts, and the dark hosts wavered in unexpected doubt. 

_But the Nazgûl turned and fled, and vanished into Mordor’s shadows, hearing a sudden terrible call out of the Dark Tower._

_Gandalf lifted up his arms and called once more in a clear voice: ‘Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.’_

_And even as he spoke the earth rocked beneath their feet. Then rising swiftly up, far above the Towers of the Black Gate, high above the mountains, a vast soaring darkness sprang into the sky, flickering with fire. The earth groaned and quaked._

Nothing moved in Minas Tirith. Both armies held their breath. The hour of doom had come. Not with the swords and spears and battle-cries, not under the hooves of horses and in the light of fires. It came unexpected, on silent feet that the Big Folk rarely hears, and with a faltering song in the darkness. 

_“The realm of Sauron is ended!” said Gandalf. “The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.” And as the Captains gazed south to the Land of Mordor, it seemed to them that, black against the pall of cloud, there rose a huge shape of shadow, impenetrable, lightningcrowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the world, and stretched out towards them a vast threatening hand, terrible but impotent: for even as it leaned over them, a great wind took it, and it was all blown away, and passed; and then a hush fell._

The Eye was no more, and Sauron’s creatures became frightened and confused without the will of their Master. The sight of the white fortress standing tall above them filled their hearts with fear, and they fled before the light reflecting in its walls. The trumpets echoed in Minas Tirith, their sound clear, piercing the confused shouts of enemies like a silver spear. The warriors in the colors of Gondor, Rohan and Dol Amroth cheered, and embraced their comrades. It was the hour when a great evil passed, the fate of all Middle-earth turning away from the darkness to embrace the light. 

There was an expression of great relief on the wizard’s face, but the joy did not reach his eyes. He knew the cost of this victory. But… maybe… His face lit up with determination. _Maybe_ … the word of hope. Then Gandalf stood upon the white walls _and called; and down to him came the great eagle, Gwaihir the Windlord, and stood before him._

_“Twice you have borne me, Gwaihir my friend,” said Gandalf. “Thrice shall pay for all, if you are willing. You will not find me a burden much greater than when you bore me from Zirak-zigil, where my old life burned away.”_

_“‘I would bear you,” answered Gwaihir, “whither you will, even were you made of stone.”_

_“Then come, and let your brother go with us, and some other of your folk who is most swift! For we have need of speed greater than any wind, outmatching the wings of the Nazgûl.”_

_“The North Wind blows, but we shall outfly it,” said Gwaihir. And he lifted up Gandalf and sped away south, and with him went Landroval, and Meneldor young and swift._

They reached the erupting mountain, an image of destruction and anger, as if the earth itself vomited in the spasms of disgust, freed from the chains of evil. Hot lava poured from the side of the mountain, destroying everything in its way. There was a little hill surrounded by fires, soon to be swallowed by the river of lava. And there…

_Side by side they lay; and down swept Gwaihir, and down came Landroval and Meneldor the swift; and in a dream, not knowing what fate had befallen them, the wanderers were lifted up and borne far away out of the darkness and the fire._

The two eagles flew to the White City with the two hobbits safely in their clutches, but Gandalf’s heart ached. Two would return. The fate of the third was still uncertain. _Maybe_ … He spoke to Gwaihir: “Wait my friend! Take me to the Dark Tower! My heart tells me that maybe there still may be some hope left among its sinister walls.”

Swift as the northern wind, flew Gwaihir the Windlord to the crumpling tower. Gandalf hoped… and in the same time, he feared what he would find there, knowing that the chances were but small for the one that faced the terrible torment of the Dark Tower. Yet he had to fly there and see by his own eyes. _Maybe_ …

They neared the tower of black stone. It was blind now, no fiery Eye looked out from the shadows, and its very foundations trembled without the will sustaining them. But still evil lingered in this place like a thick coat: echoes of menacing voices and cries of pain. And among them, an echo of one weak voice sang a song of light. 

And then Gandalf saw him: a pale figure covered in blood, hanging by the right arm in the highest place of the tower – straight in front of the Eye before it vanished.

Gandalf’s heart clenched. For a moment he was in another tale, in another time. The eagle, the figure chained by the right wrist… “ _Maedhros_ …” he whispered. But no, this wasn’t the son of Fëanor in his torment. The heir of the Kings of old hang limply in the shackles, his body covered by terrible wounds. **“** _Aragorn…_ ” sighed the wizard barely audible for his throat was constricted by sorrow and tears were in his eyes. 

Swiftly and safely landed Gwaihir on the trembling tower so that Gandalf could reach the injured man. Stones were falling out from the walls, but Gandalf did not perceive them. All he saw were the haggard features of the man he called friend for many years. His hair was matted with sweat and blood, and many bruises covered his face. And dark wounds contrasting with the paleness of his skin. And red blood…blood shed for the freedom of Middle-earth. 

_Oh Aragorn, my dear friend, what torment did you have to endure? Alone in the darkness, naked before the flame… What have they done to you, most fateful one?_

Gandalf touched his cheek gently, almost hesitantly, in an infinitely tender movement, as if the man before him was a vision, a dream that he can shatter by touch.

“Aragorn…”

The suffering was etched in his face, and the sunken eyes were closed. Traces of raging fever were in his features, but his skin was cold now. It was an expression of peace that was in his face, and he looked like sleeping and dreaming pleasant dreams; his face was like a statue on the tomb of a great king, relaxed in the peacefulness of death. 

Gandalf hesitated, and his hands trembled. Still there was a small hope, and he feared the definitive confirmation. He blinked away the tears, and took a deep breath. Then he laid his fingers on Aragorn’s neck, longing desperately to find an affirmation that the faithful heart is still beating. 

He felt nothing. Only a stillness of death for a long time… But he refused to let go! Around him, the tower was falling apart, the stones crunching, but he did not pay attention to anything around him but the feeling in his fingertips, searching against all odds for some sign of life.

And there, there was a heartbeat! Weak and irregular, like a bare whisper, faint and almost inaudible. But it was there! There is still hope! _There is still Hope_ …

Aragorn lived! Suddenly, Gandalf was aware of the destruction that engulfed them, and his throat constricted in horror. He couldn’t undo the manacle holding Aragorn’s hand. The iron was strong and unyielding, and no lock could be seen. 

_“Maedhros…”_ Gandalf whispered with broken voice. Then he unsheathed his sword. But his hands trembled, and his heart ached. He raised the sword to Aragorn’s bloodied wrist. But he hesitated. He knew that there was no chance for Aragorn’s tortured body to endure next blood loss and pain. He did not have the resilience of the Firstborn when the world was young, and he was already in shock. This would kill him. Slowly and painfully…

Gandalf wept. He could not cause the noble man next suffering. The cruel manacle defeated the mighty wizard. Broken, he raised the sword again. Not to Aragorn’s wrist, but to his heart… Quick death was the only favor he could do for his friend – the hardest decision in his ageless life. 

He kissed Aragorn on the brow gently, solemnly. “Forgive me my friend… I would give you life that you deserve if I could, but alas! I cannot! Death is the only gift I can give to you…”

Tears clouded his eyes as he raised the sword for the blow of mercy. In that moment, the tower trembled violently, and the stones shifted beneath Gwaihir’s feet. And lo! The chain holding Aragorn snapped, and the manacle shattered!

The sword slipped from Gandalf’s hand forgotten as the wizard caught Aragorn in his arms gently, with an astonished look on his face like one that saw a great fire in the city where he lived, and when he wandered through the ashes to the place where his house had been, he found it standing and untouched by the flames.

But the tower was falling apart and Gandalf had no time to wonder. When he was seated safely with Aragorn in his arms, Gwaihir took off. Behind them, Barad Dûr trembled for one last time and then stood still for a moment, like a man receiving a deadly blow before falling to his knees. Then, with a terrible crack and cloud of dust the Dark Tower fell, and the echoes of evil voices were silenced. 

Gandalf did not look back. He cradled Aragorn’s frail form, wrapping it in his own cloak. He tried to keep him warm with the heat of his own body, and the cloak and his white robes were soon stained with bright red. Aragorn’s lips were parched and bloody as he bit them in unbearable pains, and Gandalf saw how thin he was – like devoured from within by evil fire, and he wept.

_Oh my friend… my poor friend… How much pain did you have to endure? How terrible was the touch of evil to your bright spirit? Alas, they were cruel, and you was alone among them. Did they gave you some reprieve at all in the long days of torment? They gave you no food… and you didn’t even notice the hunger in your suffering, did you? But what of water? They gave you just so much to keep you alive, making the thirst even worse…_

But Gandalf had no water with him, just his own tears falling on the pale face of the man in his arms. 

_Your skin is so cold now… you have no strength left… But I see the traces of raging fever in your face. Oh Estel, what have you seen in the feverish dreams? Was it the ever-present evil, pictures of death and suffering? Or did you manage to reach for memories of light against the darkness and despair?_

_Be cursed Sauron, fallen apparition of a Maia you was once, for oppressing this noble spirit! Nobody… nobody should have suffered so…_

“Aragorn…” he whispered. “Please hold on… Do not give up! The darkness passed! Return to the light my friend… Hold on…”

For the whole time, he held his fingers on Aragorn’s neck. He needed to feel his heartbeat, and ensure that there is still life in the tortured body. It was an assurance, but in the same time the wizard was worried when he felt how weak the pulse is, how tentative the connection with life. 

“Hold on…”


	10. The Return of the King

The great eagle landed on the highest level of the city, and immediately two figures rushed to his side. Legolas and Gimli stopped in their tracks when they saw the wizard’s burden.

“Aragorn, _mellon nîn_!” exclaimed the Elf, and his eyes spoke of his worry louder then his words could ever have. “Is he…?”

Gandalf sighed regretfully. “He lives, but barely. He has suffered much… Legolas, where are Elrond’s sons?”

However, Legolas wasn’t able to answer, as relief and sorrow fought in his features while he regarded the pitiful sight of his mortal friend. Gimli answered in his place: “They are tending to the hobbits. Merry and Pippin are there also.” 

“Please call them. At least one of them. Tell them… Tell them that the King has returned…”

Gimli nodded solemnly and turned quickly to fulfill his task. Alternatively, maybe, he did not want the Elf to see the tears that glistened in his eyes…

Legolas helped Gandalf lower Aragorn from the eagle’s back carefully. The man was light. Too light. Legolas gasped when he saw the wounds that thickly covered his body. There was barely a piece of untouched skin visible: his back was torn by cruel whips; marks now marred the whole of his body while terrible burns covered his chest and arms. The deep cut on his arm was infected and swollen, and the shoulders seemed badly dislocated along with the other joints.

The Elf trembled slightly as he gently took Aragorn’s hand in his, and lowered his forehead to touch Aragorn’s. Hot tears welled in his eyes.

“Great was the price of our victory…” sighed Gandalf as he dismounted from the eagle’s back. 

Soon Elladan came rushing with Gimli in his heels and a few Citadel Guards carrying a stretcher followed. Elladan’s knees buckled at Legolas’ side. 

“ _Muindor nîn_ …” 

With an unsteady hand, he reached to check Aragorn’s pulse. Everything was silent during that moment; they almost didn’t dare to breathe. Then, Elladan withdrew his hand in alarm as he found that it barely existed and weakened rapidly. Aragorn’s skin was cold because of the deep shock. 

“Take him inside! Quickly! I must tend to him immediately!” A trace of panic sounded in the voice of the Elrondion. “Legolas, start the fire in the chamber and find warm blankets! Gimli, I need you to fetch all the healing supplies Elrohir can miss! Alas, if only our father was here...!”

The King had returned… Gently, they lifted him to the stretcher and carried him to the King’s House, where no king had dwelt for many long centuries. It was nearer then the Houses of Healing but Elladan counted every step, still assuring that his little brother lived. The sun shone on the fountain square, and its rays touched Aragorn’s face. The light won. The King had returned…

Gandalf watched them with a sad and thoughtful look. Then he turned to Gwaihir, and whispered something to the Lord of Eagles. Gwaihir nodded, and stretched his majestic wings. Then he took off, and Gandalf watched him until he was but a small dot in the northern sky. Only then did he turn back, and followed the sad procession.

* * *

The fire was already burning high and warmth spread in the chamber. Elladan had a piece of wet cloth in his hand, and wiped away the many layers of filth and dried blood. Gandalf noticed that his hands trembled slightly, and laid a steadying hand on the Half-Elf’s shoulder. 

Elladan didn’t turn from his work, but said in a choked voice: “He’s in horrible shape, Mithrandir… I fear that I don’t have the skill to keep him alive…”

Legolas looked up at them, and tears glistened in his eyes. He held Aragorn’s less injured left hand, and whispered soothing words to his irresponsive friend. 

“He has lost much blood, and is in deep shock. A few ribs are broken, and his right wrist, too. He is badly dehydrated and the injuries…” Elladan’s voice trailed off.

“Don’t lose hope, Elladan…” said Gandalf. “I believe in your skill, and his will to live…”

In that moment, Gimli approached with a cup in his hands. “Here, Master Elf. The herbs that you wanted me to crush, mixed with fresh water,” he said, and then muttered under his breath to the still figure on the bed: “Oh lad, what did you get yourself into again?” 

Elladan nodded thankfully, and took the cup from Gimli’s hands. He soaked a fresh cloth in the cup, and gently moisturized Aragorn’s cracked lips. He let a few drops trickle into his mouth, and felt relieved when the man swallowed reflexively. 

“The herbs should strengthen his heart and ease the breathing…” He continued to feed the drops of liquid into Aragorn’s mouth patiently. Meanwhile, Gandalf took over the task of cleaning the multitude of his wounds. The cloth was soon red with blood, and he had to take another.

They worked in silence, and the cracking of fire and Legolas’ soft elven singing created an almost eerie atmosphere, like the warm evening beneath the bright sky. The evil passed and the earth breathed freely again. But one man was walking on the brink of death… The one, whose strength of will made this peace possible, was not aware of it. He was not aware of the gentle hands of friends trying to soothe his pain… 

Elladan inspected all wounds carefully, and he felt every one of them like a sting in his own heart. He had to take a few deep breaths when he regarded the torn back and terrible burns. The sight of Aragorn’s wrists and ankles made his hands clench into fists. They were raw and rubbed down almost to the bone, and the right wrist had been broken by the weight of the shackles. There were deep wounds in his palms where he dug his own nails in unbearable pain. Elladan paled. If he only get his hand on the one that had done _this_ to his little brother…

For the entire time, Aragorn lay still and motionless, and only the almost undetectable heaving of his chest revealed that he still had not lost the fight with death. But he didn’t react to any of their ministrations, even when Elladan was setting his dislocated joints, his own teeth gritted in sympathy, he did not stir nor give a sound… as if his own spirit was far away from his body, wandering in unknown lands, escaping the pain of the simple act of _living._

Hours later, Aragorn’s wounds had all been bathed in athelas and bandaged carefully - the worst of them stitched - and he lay under a blanket that Legolas had warmed at the fire beforehand. He remained deathly still, and his face was as pale as a specter. 

Elladan slumped into the chair exhausted, and wept. He wept for all the suffering his brother had had to endure, and for his own helplessness to aid him more. Again, he wished Elrond could be here. 

The door opened hesitantly, and Elrohir entered the room, the same exhausted look on his face. He stood still for a long time, unable to avert his eyes from the deathly pale face of his brother. Elladan looked up. “The hobbits?” he asked quietly. 

Elrohir sighed and finally looked at his brother. “I have done everything that I could. They live, but are lost far in the land of shadows, and my might is not enough to call them back.” He bowed his head. “But what of…” his voice trailed off. 

Elladan shook his head. “He seems lost, too. Oh Elrohir, he suffered so terribly!” His eyes filled with tears again. 

“He didn’t tell Him…” Elrohir said in choked voice. 

“No. He didn’t.” Unnoticed, Gandalf approached the twins. “If he dies, he dies like a true King. But let us have hope, my friends, and trust the will of Valar. Morning may yet bring some new light…” 

* * *

Night fell on Minas Tirith, dark and peaceful like a velvet cloak. The streets were silent, as if the city was holding its breath. There was no merry singing in the seven circles, just a few wistful melodies. The Children of the West were victorious… but the ones, whose bravery earned the victory, lay near death. High was the price of this peaceful night…

There was no change in the fire-lit chamber. The twins took turns at the side of Aragorn and the hobbits, but they were too far gone for Elladan and Elrohir to reach them. Still Aragorn’s heartbeat remained alarmingly weak, although they managed to keep him warm, and made him drink some water, drop by drop. 

In the darkest hours before the dawn, when the flame of life burns lowest, they watched the paleness of his skin as it contrasted with the crimson blood that seeped through the bandages, and despaired. 

* * *

With the dawn, Gandalf left the chamber and turned to the north, looking out from the walls. Behold! A dark shape could be seen against the pale sky. With every inch of the sun on the eastern horizon, it grew bigger, and took a shape of a great bird. 

Therefore, Gwaihir the Windlord had done the fourth favor for the White Wizard. He landed heavily near the fountain, and for a moment the wizard was surprised; for not one, but two figures slipped from the eagle’s back. Then his face brightened as he saw Elrond together with his daughter. 

He bowed to Gwaihir. “Seven hundred long miles stretch between Minas Tirith and Rivendell, but your wings are faster then the North Wind.”

The great eagle looked weary, but there was concern in his keen eyes. “Swifter then death?” he asked. Elrond took Arwen’s hand into his and squeezed it reassuringly. 

The wizard nodded, but his face was grave. “Yes my friend… Thank you. Rest now, I will ask no more favors from you…” 

Then he turned to the Lord of Imladris. “Come, Master Elrond. Your sons await you. All of them…”

* * *

The door opened, and Elladan and Elrohir saw their father and sister enter the chamber. “ _Adar_! How…?” Astonished, they looked from Elrond to Gandalf, but even as they were speaking, Arwen fell to her knees at Aragorn’s side. “ _Melethron nîn…_ I’m here…I’m here my love. Don’t leave me!”

The wizard sighed, and graced the twins with a barely visible smile. “Morning may yet bring some new light…” Then his face grew serious. “Any change?” 

Elladan shook his head. “Still the same. There is only a small spark of life in his body, but I can’t reach his spirit, as if he was too far away… _Ada_?” he looked at his father, almost pleadingly. Then he told him about Aragorn’s many injuries, and how he had treated them, and Elrond’s face was grave. 

“I will do what is in my might.” Elrond said, looking at his twin sons. “You have done well already. You should rest…” 

“We will be with the hobbits.” Elrohir said hesitantly, knowing that their father needs to concentrate. The twins left, and Elrond looked at his foster son. His eyes were old and weary for a moment. But it passed quickly and there stood the tall Elven-lord with determination in his bright eyes. He laid his hand on Aragorn’s forehead gently. 

“Aragorn son of Arathorn!” he called in low voice, and the authority of many centuries was in his call. Many times he called, weaker and weaker like one receding into some far country. Many times he called, but there was no answer. Then the tune of his voice changed, not the authority of an Elven-lord, but the pleading voice of a father begging for the life of his child. “Estel Elrondion!” he called. “Estel, _ion nîn,_ return to me…” But there was no answer. 

At last, after a long time, Elrond looked up, and sighed heavily. “All I see are shadows and ashes. But the light of his spirit I cannot find…” 

“No! This cannot be!” Arwen wept, cradling Aragorn’s head in her hands. “Not now, not after all the trials! Oh my beloved, don’t go where I can’t follow!”

But Elrond stood motionless, with his head bowed. Then he looked at Gandalf briefly, and left the room. The wizard followed him, and when the door after him closed, he found Elrond leaning his forehead against the wall in a position of defeat. He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder and Elrond turned slowly, and grief shown in his eyes. 

“I do not know, Mithrandir! I do not know what to do! Even if I would be able to call him back… I looked for him and I saw terrible suffering… not only of body, but of the spirit… I fear that he would never be the same. Maybe it would be better to let him die peacefully, rather than live with such scars on his soul…” 

Gandalf was quiet for a long while. “I can tell you only what I have told your sons,” he spoke finally. “To trust the will of Valar and not forsake Hope…”

Elrond sighed, and shook his head, avoiding the answer. “Where are the Halflings?” he asked finally, turning the matter of conversation. “Maybe is in my might to help at least them…” Gandalf spoke no more, and showed him the way. 

Then he returned to Aragorn, and stood in the door, watching. Deep lines of suffering were etched in the pale face, but it was peaceful, like sleeping. Like dead had descended… And like a night sky was the hair of Arwen Undómiel, and the tears in her eyes were the stars as she kissed the irresponsive lips of the man for whom she was willing to forsake the immortal life of Eldar. And lo! a song unfolded before Gandalf’s eyes, and he saw Beren and Lúthien after fulfilling their trial and taking the Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown. 

_“Now Beren lay in a swoon within the perilous Gate, and death drew nigh him for there was venom on the fangs of the wolf. Lúthien with her lips drew out the venom, and she put forth her failing power to staunch the hideous wound...“_

_„Long Beren lay, and his spirit wandered upon the dark borders of death, knowing every an anguish that pursued him from dream to dream...“_

_„Then suddenly, when her hope was almost spent, he woke again, and looked up, seeing leaves against the sky; and he heard beneath the leaves singing soft and slow beside him Lúthien Tinúviel. And it was spring again...“*_

_“I fear he would never be the same. Maybe it would be better to let him die peacefully, rather than live with such scars on his soul…”_

_“Trust the will of Valar and do not forsake Hope…”_

And Gandalf bowed his head before the will of Valar and hoped…


	11. Renewed shall be blade that was broken

He was lost in the shadows, a shattered and wounded spirit, without memories, without name, without purpose. But, there was a light in the shadows, and he followed it, for something told him that he belonged to the light, and not to the shadows. The light grew, and he saw it as it shone from a great shape, but he had no names for the shapes of the world. Yet the form was inviting and he longed for rest…

* * *

Eärendil held his breath and tears like drops of light shone in the eyes of the Flammifer.

“… _to pass, and tarry never more…_ ”

He passed and watched, and saw the rising and downfall of kingdoms, the fall of Númenor and the forging of Rings, the Last Alliance and the new awakening and rising of evil. He watched over his children and their children. When passing above Imladris, he shone brighter for Elrond and regretted that his three grandchildren would never know him otherwise as a star crossing the night sky. 

He watched over Elros who chose mortality and over his children and the children of his children, following the line of kings as a father follows the steps of his son. Only one man was left of that line now, and Eärendil watched over him on his travels, as he overcame many hardships and trials in the fight against the spreading evil. The man had won his heart, for he was valiant and fateful, and more alike Elros in body and spirit then any of his line. 

He saw the winged creature of a nightmare take him to the Dark Tower where his sight did not reach, and despaired. He did not see… but he felt the spilling of Elros’ blood, and the cries of pain reached the ears of a father. 

Then he saw him again, trembling before the fire of the lidless Eye, and he himself trembled at the sight, clenching his hands around the rails of his ship so that they went white. With the eyes of the Flammifer he saw the light of his spirit retreat before the darkness; but the deeper into itself it retreated, the brighter it was, until, at the end, only a tiny spark was left, but shone as bright as the Silmaril that was his lantern. 

And in that moment the fire of the Eye was extinguished, and the earth moved and mountains trembled. Then the spark drifted away from the chained and beaten body, and rose above the dust and fumes of the evil land of Mordor, up to the sky, where the air was clear and the stars shone bright, where Eärendil sailed upon the waves of heavens. 

There it came, guided by the light of Silmaril, and Eärendil cupped his hands, and caught the spark gently, whispering soothing words to the wounded spirit. And there, in the safe hands of the Flammifer, the spirit found rest. 

Eärendil sailed with the heavenly winds in his sails, and those who saw the Star of Hope this night noticed that it shone brighter, as though carrying not one light, but two. 

He sailed across the night, to the land where Vingilot had its haven on the moonlit pebbled strand, west of the Moon and east of the Sun. But he didn’t guide his ship to her haven. He felt daring as though for the first time when he let the Vingilot land on the top of Taniquietil where Manwë Súlimo, the lord of Valar and his spouse Varda Elentári, whom the Elves in Middle-earth called Elbereth Gilthoniel and the Lady of Stars dwelled in their halls of Ilmarin. There he landed daringly, and yet in humility, and bowed low before the majestic couple. 

But Varda smiled and kindness shone in her eyes. “Arise Eärendil, son of Tuor,” she said, “for I know what is in your mind and what light you have brought. I, too, have watched the sacrifice that brought the downfall of the servant of Morgoth. Twice now, you have brought light to Taniquetil, but this is a living light, not the shine of a Silmaril. Will you entrust the light to my hands, Flammifer?”

“Aye, my Queen,” Eärendil said. “Your hands have sown the stars like silver blossoms in the Sunless Year. I trust you with my life and soul and the life and soul of the son of my blood.” 

And Varda took the light from Eärendil’s hands, and it shone in her white hand like a drop of dew on the leaves of Telperion in the Age of Trees. Then she took council with her husband and the brothers Fëanturi - Mandos and Lórien, and Vairë who weaves the tapestry of all tales that have been, and Nienna that weeps with tears that cleanse the soul. 

“He burned,” she spoke. “His spirit burned to ashes in the fire of darkness. Like the sword that was broken he was shattered, and only a spark is left…”

“But his body is not dead,” said Mandos, “and cannot die to find rest beyond the circles of the world while his spirit is in the Undying Lands of Aman. It is the fate of Second-born to be not bound to Arda. ”

“Aye,” Manwë spoke. “And it is the fate of Second-born to shape the Song to their own will. He is neither dead nor alive. The choice is his. But, without this mortal the servant of Morgoth would have claimed the Middle-earth. Whatever he chooses, he should do so as whole, knowing his name and life. Renewed shall be blade that was broken!”

The Valar bowed their heads, and Varda opened her shining hand. Then Vairë took a thread from her tapestry that was the memories of his life, and Nienna wept the cleansing tears. And Varda Elentári sang, and her song was like the rising of stars and the changing of lights in the Age of Trees. She sang a song of mending and healing, and the thread of memories and the tears of Nienna were woven into the song. It danced and whirled like a swift stream, and floated peacefully like a broad river, and then it engulfed the spark of the spirit, and a great light filled the halls of Ilmarin.

When the light abated, there stood a figure of a man clad in white and silver, and the light of his spirit was in his eyes. He knelt before the Council of Valar, but Varda stepped forth, and lifted him up gently. “You have accomplished great deeds, Child of Ilúvatar. Great evil was defeated, and the land breathes freely…”

He looked up to the shining face of the Queen of Stars, and all memories returned to him. He was Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, and Estel Elrondion, the Hope of Men, and a member of the Fellowship. He loved and was loved. He was brought before the Eye and suffered, and fought to protect the secret… A flash of pain crossed his face at the last memory, and he shivered. 

But Varda laid her hand on his shoulder, and gently made him look into her ageless eyes. “Look at me, Child… It is over. Your spirit was burned and wounded terribly, but you are whole again. The memories you must bear, for they are a part of you, and they cannot be taken from you, not even by the will of Valar. You went through the fire, but your spirit shines brighter through your sacrifice. It was your will that made the victory possible. Your _free_ will. But now, a choice is before you, and you will choose freely… 

You are weary. If you wish, you can pass beyond the circles of the world and find the rest that you deserve, and know no pain and suffering any longer. You can choose death, the gift of Ilúvatar to his Second-born children. 

But if you choose life, you will be bound to Arda for many more years, and you will see the fruits of your labour. You will renew the Kingdom of Men, and your life will be full of blessings. But should you take this path, another fight awaits you, for your body is wounded and weak, and lies near death. 

The choice is hard… But know that however you choose, you have the blessings of the Valar.” Her eyes were full of compassion and kindness as she spoke, and then she lowered her head and kissed Aragorn on the brow. 

Then Manwë stepped forth and spoke. “Do not worry now, Child of Ilúvatar. You have time to think over your choice. You will sail with Eärendil to the place where your body lies. There you must choose: to return or to leave. There is no good or bad choice, and whatever you choose, Ilúvatar will guide you.” 

Then Manwë blessed him, and Eärendil took his hand, and guided him to Vingilot. There he set the sails, and put forth from Taniquetil, leaving the white walls of Pelóri and all that lies beyond them behind. Aragorn stood at the rails and watched until the clouds veiled the Blessed Realm, hiding it from his sight. The last thing that he saw were the shining eyes of Varda the Starkindler, following him long after Vingilot disappeared from the sight. He wanted to keep the memory of those eyes forever, and, looking to the West, he touched his brow where he still felt the warmth of her kiss. 

He was deep in thought when Eärendil approached quietly. “Aragorn…” he sighed. “Oh, you are so alike Elros…” There was look of fatherly love in his eyes, and in his face Aragorn saw a fate of long centuries of watching over the fate of Middle-earth and his descendants, but never being able to set foot on its shores and speak with his kin again. It was the fate of becoming more and more a legend in their minds, a star more then a living man in memory. 

Aragorn remembered the safe hands holding him when he was lost and the soothing tune of his voice. Then, from a sudden impulse, he embraced the living man, not a legend or a star. In the safety of his arms, he whispered: “Father…” and wept freely, the cleansing, healing tears that cooled the angry flame of the memories of his suffering. And Eärendil wept, holding his child close and stroking his hair. 

Then they sat side by side on the prow of Vingilot and spoke of many things: about the far journeys on the wide Sea, and the music in the sweet air of Valinor, about the twins from Rivendell and their deeds, and the life of rangers…

Too soon, it seemed, came the time of their parting. The time of Choice. The White City lay below like a pearl upon the slopes of Mindolluin. Aragorn smiled at the sight, for he had seen it burn and fall into darkness, and now it was like a new spring coming to a frozen land. But there, on the highest level of the city, in a fire-lit chamber, he saw his body, and there was still winter. 

He saw it as a cage of pain, and his shoulders slumped under the weight of the Choice. Eärendil laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, and Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m so weary…” he whispered. 

He looked into the chamber in the King’s House again, as if to take leave from the city and kingdom, the crown of which he would never bear. He looked, and saw an elven maid with hair like shadows of twilight, and her eyes shone with love like the evening upon Cerin Amroth. 

“Arwen…”

“ _I choose a mortal life…”_

_Arwen… You are willing to die for me… What can I give you, my beloved?_

And he knew.

_I can live. Live for you…_

The choice was made. Aragorn turned to Eärendil, and for a moment all his weariness and fear of returning into the prison of pain shown clearly in his face, but his eyes shone bright with love and new determination. 

Eärendil embraced him for the last time, kissing him on the brow, and then Aragorn closed his eyes and let his spirit float from the shining ship to the highest level of the White City, to the fire-lit chamber and the pale and motionless form of his body where the fairest of elven maids awaited him with her love.

_And it was spring again_...


	12. From the ashes a fire shall be woken

Elrond stood before the door of the chamber, his eyes shut, while silent tears flowed down his cheeks. Behind this door, his son was dying. Frodo’s words echoed in his mind…

_He called the Halfling by his name. Frodo was lost in the shadows of a bleak grey country, and Elrond was looking for him, trying to show him the way to the light. For Frodo, there was still hope, not like… Elrond had brushed those thoughts aside. He needed to do something, to make the difference. With all his might he called, and this time, his call was heard. The Halfling’s eyes opened slowly, and tried to focus on his face._

_“Strider…” Frodo whispered, his look still confused. The word nearly broke Elrond’s heart._

_“You are safe, Frodo. You have done it. You destroyed the Ring.” He brought a cup to the hobbit’s lips, and let him drink, supporting his head._

_Finally Frodo seemed to recognize Elrond. “I have… seen him.” He whispered. Elrond wanted to forbid him to speak, for he was very weak, but he found himself drawing nearer to Frodo and asking. “Whom did you see, Frodo?”_

_Frodo’s look was pained. “Strider… shielding the Eye…” He looked to Elrond with a look of hope against the impossible. “Is he alright?”_

_Elrond felt his heart constrict. He couldn’t answer; he did not have the strength to voice the answer. Instead, he gently stroked Frodo’s hair. “Sleep…” he murmured, concentrating._

He stood before the door with his head bowed. He remembered his brother, and the choice that separated them. At first he had been furious at Elros for leaving him, breaking their bond by choosing mortal destiny. He did not understand, it pained him to see his brother fade with every passing second, the sand of his life pouring away. The pain dulled with years, but it took many centuries for understanding to come. It came unexpectedly, with a grey-eyed child, with the laughter that filled the halls of Rivendell after such a long time. Elros did not leave him. He chose to live a full life, where the certainty of death makes every day new and exceptional. He looked at his immortal brother through centuries with the clear eyes of a child. With the eyes of Hope. 

His brother did not leave him. And Elrond knew that he could not leave this child that had become a man, worthy of his heritage, now. He could not, even if it was only to be with him to the very end, even if it was as painful as losing Elros again. But… could he dare to hope? Could he dare to feel the same flicker of impossible hope as Frodo? As a healer, he could not. As a healer, he knew that he should let him die peacefully. As a father, he could not let his son go. 

Slowly, he pushed the door open, and entered the chamber quietly. Outside it was dark already, and stars shone through the high window in the chamber. For a while Elrond looked to them. There was Eärendil, the star of his father. Gil-Estel, The Star of High Hope… 

Gandalf looked up questioningly, and Elrond popped up from his thoughts. He knew what the Istar would ask. “The hobbits will live. I managed to call them back, and send them to a healing sleep.” The wizard’s face relaxed a little. He looked weary, like an old man with deep wrinkles of worry. 

“Frodo asked for Strider.” Elrond continued quietly. “You were right, Mithrandir. I cannot forsake Hope.” He approached the bed, and reached with his hand to stroke his daughter’s hair. She looked at him with sad, dull eyes, but his presence comforted her somehow. Then Elrond took a seat on the other side of the bed, and touched the cheek of his son tenderly with the back of his long fingers. 

He froze in the movement, and his eyes widened. Something sparkled in their ageless depths as the heat of a fever radiated into his fingers. “He fights…” Elrond whispered with unsteady voice, as if he didn’t dare to believe what he felt. “He is running a fever. He fights!” 

Everyone in the room looked to Elrond. There was a new determination in the posture of the Lord of Imladris as he put his hand on Aragorn’s brow, and closed his eyes. For a long moment he did not move, and when he looked up, joy and deep concern were entwined in his look. “I don’t know what happened… There were only shadows and ashes before. Now a new fire burns in him. A clean, white fire like the light of Silmaril. Like the light in the eyes of those that saw the shores of the Blessed Realms... But his body is grievously injured and weak, and the pain quenches the fire…” 

With a great tenderness he stroked Aragorn’s hair. “Estel…” he whispered. “Fight, Estel. Do not give up. Please…” 

As if in response to his words Aragorn stirred slightly, and his breathing quickened. Obviously, he was in great pain, but he fought to live! Elrond’s heart quickened, too, as he watched the deadly peacefulness of his son’s face replaced by the lines of suffering in his fight. But he composed himself as there was no more tension between the father and healer. He was both now, and desired to help to win this battle with all his heart. 

Elrond reached for the supplies that he brought from Rivendell, and asked for boiling water. His voice was now steady, determined. While he waited, he took out a flask from the folds of his robes. He did not do it before - he would not unnecessarily prolong Estel’s suffering. But now, there was hope again. “Miruvor…” Gandalf sighed.

Elrond nodded, and gently supported Aragorn’s head, slowly pouring the strengthening liquid into his mouth. Aragon’s heartbeat was now weak and racing, and the man shivered and moaned quietly, trapped in the prison of pain between consciousness and unconsciousness. It pained all who watched to see him so. 

Legolas handed Elrond a bowl of steaming water, and the Half-Elf crushed a few leaves of athelas into it. The air in the room suddenly freshened and cleared, and to those who recognized it, it had the fragrance of the sweet air of Imladris. Elrond’s hands held the same power over the plant as Aragorn’s, and all in the room were refreshed, as though after a deep, peaceful sleep. 

Aragorn’s face seemed to calm a little, but he did not wake. Arwen wiped his sweaty forehead gently, and Elrond took up the task of change the blood-stained bandages. He could almost feel the pain coursing through his son’s body like angry black flames burning beneath his skin. Soothing warmth radiated from his hands as he held them over the numerous wounds, and bathed them in the water with athelas. 

Then Gandalf left to check on the hobbits and allow Elladan and Elrohir to come to their brother’s side. Elrond could only wait, holding Aragorn’s less injured hand gently, and wiping his brow with cool water. Still Aragorn did not wake, and the fever increased. He tossed and moaned in his delirious state. Elrond wished desperately he could give him some pain-relieving herbs, but did not dare to take such a risk while he was unconscious.

Arwen shivered herself as she watched him in agony, and the images of Aragorn, chained and bleeding in a dark place, like she had seen him in her dreams, were almost too much to bear for her gentle spirit. 

The hours passed with no change. Aragorn’s breath was shallow and laboured, and his heartbeat too weak and it raced like the wings of a trapped bird. Then Aragorn began to speak in his delirium, the words were too hoarse and slurred to understand, but one word was repeated. _Ada_ , he called in his suffering, returning to the time when every pain and fear could be drawn away by the gentle hand of his father. Tears glistened Elrond’s eyes when he tried to soothe him, whispering the words that he had whispered to the silver-eyed boy so many times before. 

“Shhh, easy my child. I’m here. Ada is here… “ 

Elrond knelt at the bed and lowered his head to Aragorn’s. “Oh Estel…” he spoke quietly, so that only Aragorn would hear his words, should he be awake. “Please return to me. I’m waiting for you… Arwen is waiting for you. Forgive me for not seeing you as worthy of her. There is none more worthy. I would not give her hand to any Elven-lord. Please Estel, don’t break her heart… Don’t break _my_ heart…”

Arwen shivered beneath the weight of the images of her beloved’s suffering. She closed her eyes and reached into herself for other images – for the memories of brighter times and careless moments, when no shadow seemed to exist. From these memories, a song poured to her lips and she sang quietly, her voice like a stream of silver in the darkened room. 

_The leaves were long, the grass was green,_   
_The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,_   
_And in the glade a light was seen_   
_Of stars in shadow shimmering._   
_Tinúviel was dancing there_   
_To music of a pipe unseen,_   
_And light of stars was in her hair,_   
_And in her raiment glimmering._

She sang, and tears glistened in her eyes as she remembered the young man singing the song of Lúthien under the white birches of Rivendell’s gardens when she came from her grandmother’s realm to visit her father. She remembered the look in his eyes when he beheld her for the first time, a look of awe and astonishment as he called her by the name of her ancestress, afraid that she might flee from him like a passing vision. 

_Again she fled, but swift he came._  
 _Tinúviel! Tinúviel!_  
 _He called her by her elvish name;_  
 _And there she halted listening._  
 _One moment stood she, and a spell_  
 _His voice laid on her: Beren came,_  
 _And doom fell on Tinúviel_  
 _That in his arms lay glistening_.

Doom fell on Arwen Undómiel with the first look of those silver eyes. Since then, her heart was caught in the sweet web of love. Yet bitter was its taste now, when she watched her love fight for life, writhing in agony. She sang the tale of Beren and Lúthien, but she thought on her own tale, the tale of Aragorn and Arwen, that stood on the knife’s edge between two endings in these dark hours. 

* * *

Aragorn was half-aware of the sounds around him, but he had no strength to fully emerge from the sticky tendrils of unconsciousness. The pain was overwhelming, and his mind was confused. In one moment he hung in a high place, enveloped by flames, and then he was a little boy again, scared by nightmares in the darkness of his room. He fought spiders in Mirkwood, and he was bitten and hung in a spider-web, unable to move, awaiting the touch of the merciless creatures. He was falling over a cliff, watching the wild waters of the river below nearing with nauseating speed. He was fighting in a battle, and an arrow caught him in the middle of his chest, and he felt the life pouring away from him with his blood. The scenes changed with increasing speed, but one scene always returned – the flames of a malicious eye. And the pain stayed… 

Quiet words reached his feverish mind. He did not understand the words, but the voice was familiar. It was a voice that connected with safety in his mind. Then another voice, singing. The song penetrated the illusions, and brought light into them. He knew the light; it was familiar, too, like the scent that hung in the air. It was the light of sun through the leaves of trees in the secret valley of Rivendell. And he knew then, that he is safe, that the illusions are not real. Recognition dawned at him. The first voice belonged to Elrond. _Ada_ … And the singing voice… he remembered. _I can live. Live for you… my Arwen…_

And he struggled to return to life, to escape the dark tendrils pulling him deeper and deeper. The battle that he fought was hard and painful, but the voices guided him. The sounds and scents became clearer. There was a gentle hand holding his. He tried to squeeze it, but found that his fingers wouldn’t move on the command of his will. His body felt as though it was buried under heavy stones, unable to move, although he was aware of it. _Arwen…_ He gathered all his strength to shake off the cold embrace of darkness that made the movement impossible. He moaned, and his eyelids fluttered like the wings of a butterfly in its first morning. It cost him all his strength to open them into a narrow slit. They closed again, but the voice of his beloved gave his eyelids strength to open for the second time and focus on her fair face. 

Her love shone in her eyes, and her face was wet with tears. He wanted to voice a question, but he had no strength for it. A tender finger touched his lips. “Shhh, Estel… Do not speak. You are safe. You are in Minas Tirith and the Ring is destroyed.” He tensed for a while as he remembered, but then he relaxed under the smiling eyes of the Evenstar. _All is well_ … 

Suddenly a thought came to his mind, and he looked up in alarm. He tried to whisper the question, but the sound that came through his lips was barely audible. But Elrond understood. He has seen that look in other eyes already – the eyes of Frodo when asking for Strider… “Frodo is here, in another chamber. He will be alright…” he said, leaning over his son, a gentle smile on his ageless face where the great relief did not have time to wash away the lines of worry yet. Aragon relaxed again and his eyes began to close. Elrond supported his head and helped him to drink some water. It felt wonderful in his parched throat, like the sweetest mead of Valinor. It was the water from the wells in Rivendell. Then Elrond stroked his cheek tenderly. “Sleep, Estel. Sleep… And may your sleep be the sleep of healing…”

With the words Aragorn’s eyes closed, and he let himself float on the waves of a deep, healing sleep. 


	13. The crownless again shall be king

It was a pleasant feeling, like a sleepy late morning in a sunny day after many cold and cloudy ones. The sunrays were touching his face, and the air was sweet with the scent of oncoming spring. He was lying on a soft bed. Aragorn savored the feeling for a while, letting his eyes shut, and a slight smile was playing on his lips. Then he opened his eyes slowly. The first thing that he recognized was the light. No other place in Middle-earth had such a light: the warm southern sun reflected in the white walls… The White City! The light returned Aragorn to the day when he entered the city after the victorious battle, because his hands were needed. The hands of a healer. The hands of a king. How did he get here? Did he fall asleep in this chamber? Oh, he had had such a dark dreams! 

He wanted to rise from the bed, but he couldn’t: as he tried to move, his body felt so weak! At the slight movement, someone approached the bed, and leaned over him. “Welcome to the waking world...” Gandalf said with a smile as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

Aragorn frowned slightly, trying to remember. “Good morning…” he wanted to say, but found that his voice sounded as weak as his body felt. He looked at his hands and saw that his wrists were bandaged. Slowly, the recognition dawned on him. He closed his eyes for a while, and then locked his gaze with Gandalf’s. “It wasn’t a dream, was it?” he whispered, and his eyes filled with the weight of memories. 

“No.” Gandalf sighed, and put a comforting hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “You were brought to Minas Tirith on the very brink of death. Elrond himself tended to you, and then sent you to the sweet forgetfulness of sleep. It is the seventeenth day of the New Year. Or, if you like, the eleventh day of April in the Shire reckoning. _But in Gondor the New Year will always now begin upon the twenty-fifth of March when Sauron fell_.”

Aragorn stayed quiet for a while, and his eyes grew distant, as if he saw terrible things that weren’t there. Gandalf’s expression was pained, too, as he watched him. Had Elrond been right? Were the scars too deep? Aragorn’s eyes reflected fires and shadows in a dizzying dance, and his suffering was etched in his pale, worn face. Gandalf’s heart felt heavy with sorrow. _I fear he would never be the same…_ Elrond’s voice echoed in his mind. 

But then something changed. With astonishment Gandalf watched as a bright light penetrated the shadows, and it felt like the West Wind upon his face. The same light reflected in the Maia’s gaze, the light of a memory of two clear eyes, deep and shining like stars, like the Flame Imperishable itself. _Clear are thy eyes and bright thy breath_ , _Varda Elentári!_ Gandalf smiled slightly as Aragorn’s face relaxed. The memories were still there, dark and horrible. _No, he will never be the same…_ He accepted the memories as a part of him, but did not let them to quench the light of his spirit. There was a memory of light that wouldn’t allow the shadows to take hold. Two clear eyes… He was changed, but not broken - like steel hardened by fire. 

“You have seen Her…” Gandalf whispered. 

Aragorn closed his eyes for a while and a slight smile played on his lips as he tried to grasp the memory that shone so bright in his mind. It evaded him, like a half-forgotten dream, more feelings than clear pictures. All he could remember was the warmth of a kiss on his forehead and bright eyes looking deep into his soul, bringing the light into shadows. He did not answer the wizard’s question. He did not have to: the answer reflected in his eyes as he looked up to his friend. 

In that moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a tall elf entered quietly. His face brightened when he saw Aragorn awake. With a few steps, he was at the bed, and Gandalf stood up and stepped aside to make him place. Aragorn smiled, it felt as if he had awoken from a nightmare and found that the pleasant dreams were coming true. “ _Ada_ …” he whispered. 

“ _Ion nîn_ …” Elrond’s voice was thick with emotion. “I feared for you… I feared that I had lost you… Oh Estel!” Elrond dropped to his knees and his hands trembled slightly as he embraced his son. His embrace was strong but gentle, careful about the most serious wounds that were still healing. Aragorn closed his eyes, and tears flowed from under his eyelids freely, just like Elrond’s own tears. There, in the darkness, he hadn’t believed he would feel the touch of these hands again. 

“ _Ada_ …”

“Estel…“ Elrond wiped the tears from his son’s cheeks with his thumb, smiling and weeping in the same time. 

Aragorn felt so safe in his embrace… All the fears, all the pain he had to endure alone flowed away with his tears. He didn’t have to be strong to resist with all his will anymore. He could rest now, and let all the painfully suppressed emotions flow freely. Like water to a parched land felt the embrace. Across the years, father and son erected many barriers between them, shielding their mutual love from the sight of the other: the shadow of leave taking for one of them stood between the two. The barriers crumpled like a dam unable to withstand the pressure of a long withheld flood, and all the feelings flowed in a mighty burst, together with the tears, pure and cleansing. 

Aragorn wept until he had no tears left, and then he just lay with his eyes closed, breathing the familiar scent of Elrond’s embrace that returned him to his childhood in the Last Homely House. He did not notice Gandalf’s departure, nor his return. But Elrond did: Gandalf had not returned alone. Slowly he broke the embrace and helped Aragorn to prop up on the pillow. Then he stepped aside to allow him to look at the woman that came with Gandalf. 

Arwen’s eyes met his. For a moment she stood motionless, like under a spell. Like in their first meeting, but the roles were reversed: now _she_ was the one that feared to move, to not scare this moment away like a passing vision. 

“Tinúviel…” he whispered. She felt the spell of the word binding her with the bonds as strong as the feeling reflected in his eyes. The spell of love made her move, and, without words, but clearer then words, guided her lips to his. The time stopped in that moment, and in the world of the lovers the kiss lasted forever. Nothing else existed around them; they were lost in their kiss, and yet not lost, but found in their love. They were here for each other. In their choice, both had chosen love above life and death. 

There was a smile on Elrond’s face as he witnessed the love of his children. The leave taking will be bitter, he knew, but even bitterer would be the sundering of those that belonged together like two parts of one soul. He watched them lost in their own world and it felt right to him. Watching them, he began to get lost, as well, in the thoughts of his reuniting with his beloved Celebrían, the mother of his children… besides one. 

A sound at the door brought him back from his dreaming. It sounded like… a chuckle? Elrond turned around. Yes, it was one. A hobbit chuckle, actually. Merriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took stood in the door – _of course, who else_? For a few next moments the couple managed to ignore them successfully. But it’s hard to ignore a chuckling hobbit, even for the lovers as absorbed by themselves as the two were. 

They smiled against each other’s lips, and hesitantly broke the kiss. Arwen turned with an amused expression in her face. “What are you laughing at, you two?” she asked and Aragorn’s eyes sparkled with mirth. Gandalf would have embraced the hobbits for that spark. 

Merry blushed. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. We just…”

“We heard Gandalf saying that you are awake…” helped him Pippin. “You still owe me an ale, dear cousin,” he mumbled, turning to Merry.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. 

“I think he has heard that, Pipp…” Merry whispered. 

Now it was Pippin’s turn to blush. “Well… Lord Elrond told us that you’d be alright, so… we meant no disrespect, Strider, really…”

Merry sighed. “We took a wager on who’ll wake sooner: you or Frodo.” 

Now Aragorn laughed aloud. It felt so refreshing - the simple sound of a laugh. He couldn’t remember when he had laughed for the last time. It assured him that this indeed was not dream or vision. It was real. Nothing could be more real then hobbits… He laughed and he felt _alive_. 

“And on whom did you bet, Pippin?” he asked as the laugh subsided, the mirth still sparkling in his eyes. 

The hobbit grinned. “On Frodo, of course…”

As an acknowledgement of Pippin’s success another curly head appeared in the door behind the cousins. The face under the curls was thin and pale, but he seemed quite well. _Frodo_ … The spark of mirth subsided to be replaced by something more solemn, and deeper. 

Their eyes met. They couldn’t find the words; there were no words to express the feelings. Nevertheless, their eyes spoke. About gratitude, about loyalty, about trust… about the moment when they had seen each other in a vision when the darkness was worst. About the new strength that they found in each other when they had no strength left. 

“I saw you…” Frodo whispered; the image still vivid before his eyes. 

Aragorn nodded and his eyes smiled warmly at the hobbit. “I saw you too, Frodo...“ He reached with his hand weakly towards him. “Thank you…”

Frodo stepped hesitantly forward and walked to the bed. He could have wept at the sight of his Dúnadan friend. The man on the bed looked like a shadow of the hardy ranger that he met in Bree, his face pale and haggard, and his eyes sunken, the lines of suffering etched deeply in his noble features. But his eyes smiled at Frodo, and to the hobbit there seemed to be a soft light radiating from his face. 

Frodo took the outstretched hand that trembled with the exertion, and, from a sudden impulse, he kissed it. 

“Please don’t…” Aragorn whispered, but his voice trailed off as he beheld the Halfling’s hand with the missing finger. He sighed and his eyes saddened. “I’m sorry…” he whispered. “I’ve sworn to protect you…”

“And you did,” Frodo said quietly. “You did.” Gently he touched Aragorn’s bandaged wrist with the hand with the missing finger. With the touch, their eyes met again, and they smiled slightly at each other. The wounds would heal. The memories would remain, but it’s a small price for the defeat of the darkness. 

More voices came then from the direction of the door. Declarations like:

“Stubborn ranger!”

“Took him long to awake!”

and

“I’m gonna kill him!“

became audible. 

Suddenly the room was full of people. There was Sam and Legolas and Gimli, even Elladan and Elrohir… His complete family and the Fellowship were all there. For a moment, Aragorn thought of Boromir, and felt a pang of regret that the son of Gondor wouldn’t see their victory. Then he saw a familiar figure standing hesitantly in the door and smiled. Faramir… and Éowyn was at his side. Now Aragorn smiled broadly. He had not believed that he would see anyone of them ever again, but here they were, their eyes lit with friendship and love, and tears glistened in Aragorn’s eyes again, but they were tears of joy. 

Legolas sat down on the edge of the bed. “You look terrible,” he stated.

Aragorn grinned. “It’s not funny for the second time, you know…” 

“No, it isn’t. Just like your tendency to get into such a predicament.” The Elf retorted in a jovial way, but his eyes revealed the deep concern he felt for his friend.

“Don’t worry, Legolas.” Aragorn said softly. “I’m still here.” 

Legolas smiled slightly and nodded. “Aye, you are… Thank you.”

Elrond watched with a smile, but it was evident that his patience is running thin. Finally, he exclaimed: “So you have seen him. Now get out of here and let him rest!”

“All of you!” he added when several voices rose in protest. 

“Now!” His look was one of pure authority, an authority that had had several thousands of years of practice. Slowly the people walked out of the chamber, although Legolas and Arwen needed an individual, intent stare to comply finally. 

When the door closed with a last look from Arwen, and Aragorn stayed alone with Elrond, the Half-Elf’s expression softened. He could tell that the reuniting and so many emotions had exhausted Aragorn, but he was also happy – and that was more than worth it. 

He took a seat on the edge of the bed, and brushed aside a strand of Aragorn’s hair. “You really look terrible, you know…” he smiled softly. “How do you feel?”

Aragorn closed his eyes for a while. “Weak,” was the quiet answer. 

Elrond nodded. “Your body has spent all of its reserves. I sent you to a healing sleep before, but you need to eat and rest to regain your strength and for your wounds to heal fully. You have several broken bones and torn tendons and muscles that will need more peace to heal…” he said, like one healer to another. 

A knock sounded at the door, and Legolas entered, carrying a tray with a cup and a steaming bowl. Elrond raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t I send Gandalf?” 

Legolas sighed, gave the tray to Elrond, and with a last look at Aragorn, who winked in response, left the chamber. 

Elrond shook his head and held the cup with fruit juice to Aragorn’s lips. The man drank eagerly, he hadn’t realized until now how thirsty he was. However, the thought on food was not as alluring. He frowned slightly. “I’m not hungry.”

“I know, _ion nîn_ …“ Elrond sighed. “You haven’t eaten for a very long time, and your stomach is not used to it anymore, but you need to eat something. Here, try this.”

Aragorn look at the bowl suspiciously. “What’s it?”

Elrond smiled almost mischievously. “Just try it.” He lifted a spoon to Aragorn’s lips. The man swallowed obediently, and a look of a slight confusion appeared on his face. “Lembas?” he asked. 

Elrond smiled. “Lembas gruel. Light for the stomach and nourishing. It was Arwen’s idea.”

Aragorn smiled, too. “It’s – actually - quite tasty…” he said to his future father-in-law. 

* * *

The land breathed freely again, cleansed from the long shadow. The flowers blossomed and the birds sang their songs, and everything was like for the first time, as if a heavy burden had been lifted. The days were warm and sunny, and the scent of fresh grass and honey was in the air. They were the days of healing. 

For more then ten days, Aragorn was too weak to rise from the bed, but someone was always with him to keep him company and watch over him in sleep, to wake him when the nightmares came. They did, and they could only guess what horrors he had seen when he woke trembling, drenched in cold sweat. There were the scars that even Elrond with his elven wisdom could not heal. But then Aragorn would remember the light of two ageless eyes, and his features would relax, and he would sleep peacefully until the morning. Gradually, as the nights shortened and summer came to the White City, the nightmares got less frequent and intense. 

Aragorn slowly recovered his strength, walking in the gardens with the supporting hands of his loved ones, until he could walk on his own. Elrond had had a hard time then, trying to prevent him from overexerting himself – Aragorn was eager to regain the full rule over his body. For now, the rule of the City was in the hands of Faramir, who, when Aragorn was better, often came to him to debate his decisions, and complain about elves and wizards offering too much advice in the matters of state. In a short time, the two men became good friends. 

As the days lengthened, and the memory of the shadow seemed more distant with every passing day, the White City prepared for the coronation of the King. The streets hummed with excitement and the fountains seemed to sing about the glory returned. Then finally, on the day of the summer solstice, the King walked through the streets. 

His cloak was white like the fresh snow and his armor shone like the stars in the fountain. The sword of his ancestors was at his side – ancient, and yet new, reforged from the shards, rising from the mists of time to shine with the new flame. Just like the line of Kings, shattered and forgotten with the sword, shining now with new light in one man. He walked with his head lifted proudly, and his step was steady and unwavering as he passed the crowds of people assembled in the streets. His people… He looked at them, and his eyes were kind and gentle, and lit by an inner fire. 

Wisdom was in his face, and the strength that comes with many overcome hardships. And to those, who beheld him that day, it seemed as if clean white light radiated from his face and the White City itself shone like a pearl in the sun.


	14. Epilogue: The Song of the Light

_A minstrel of Gondor stood forth, and knelt, and begged leave to sing. And behold! he said: “Lo! lords and knights and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Riders of Rohan, and the Lord of Imladris, and ye sons and daughter of Elrond, and Dúnedain of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay._ _For I will sing to you of hope and faithfulness, and of the light in the darkness.”_

_And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all men were hushed._

In Rammas Echor fires burned  
The day into night Sauron turned  
In greatest need  
With the wind’s speed  
To White City the King returned

Then with red dew the heavens bled  
In the White City blew Black Breath  
Under death’s wing  
The hands of King  
The lost back to the light have led

Like wings of nightmare was the night  
When despair quenched the newfound light  
A shrilling scream  
From a bad dream  
Abandoned sword in morn they found

He chanted a song of wizardry,  
Of piercing, opening, of treachery  
The lidless Eye  
The evil lie  
To quench the hope in misery

But in the darkness Hope rose swaying,  
And sang in answer song of staying  
Of faithfulness  
Of Western seas  
Of the light deep in the soul laying

Resisting, battling against power,  
Of secrets kept, strength like a tower  
Like hardened steel  
The strength of will  
Before the Eye there is no cover

Backwards and forwards swayed their song  
Reeling and foundering, as ever more strong  
The healer’s hands  
In cruel chains  
And days felt like centuries long

The chanting swelled: Elessar fought  
And all the hope and light he brought  
Into his words  
Like mighty swords  
To guard the secret that the Eye sought

The White City stood tall and proud  
In heart of darkness shining light  
But Gate by Gate  
The nearing fate  
Until the last, uneven fight

At end of hope, at end of all  
In shambles laying the white wall  
The secret kept  
The shadow swept  
Two hobbits were the Dark Lord’s fall

In chains, in blood hanging alone  
High in crumbling tower of stone  
With northern winds  
On eagle’s wings  
King of Westernesse returned home

Returning on the brink of death…  
With silver tears the fountains wept  
For the pale face  
For bloody trace  
And for the hope that itself spent

The night was quiet under Moon  
Like a bride waiting for her groom  
The land is free  
And cleansed can breathe  
But her groom lay in deathly swoon

There brightly shone a single star  
The Wanderer from the West far  
In the King’s eyes  
His clean light shines  
From darkness returned Elessar!

The days were blessed, the nights were clear  
Of joy, not sorrow, was each tear  
The fountains sang  
Silver bells rang:The King returned! The King is here!

* * *

Aragorn awoke in the middle of the night. He trembled and his heart raced. The nightmares returned, the fire and pain… It was the twenty-fifth of March today. Gondor was preparing for the celebrations of the New Year. But, to Aragorn, it was a year from the cruelest fight that he had ever fought. He looked at his sleeping wife. She looked calm and peaceful in her sleep; he didn’t want to wake her. He just watched her long eyelashes covering her eyes and the slow heaving of her chest, and, after a while, his heart calmed. But still he did not find rest. 

He rose from the bed and walked outside, into the cool night air. The White Tree stood in the middle of the court, a sapling still, but promising to be strong and tall one day, growing with the glory of Gondor. He looked to its crown, and with astonishment, he saw that the first blossom had opened during the night. It was shy and tender, soft petals like the silver tunes of a song. As Aragorn looked at it, a clear light shone through the crown of the tree, just behind the blossom, making it to a silver lantern with the light of Silmaril. It was the star of Eärendil. The light reflected in Aragorn’s eyes, bringing the memory of sweet scent and soft music, and of the feeling of safety, held by two strong, warm hands. He felt as though Eärendil watched him, shining all the more brightly for him.

And he smiled. 


End file.
